


Just Like Heaven

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hunger Games, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Mail Order Brides, this is a rewrite of a fic I wrote last year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 87,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate and hungry, Katniss Everdeen does the unthinkable to feed her family -- registers to become a stranger's bride. Nothing at her new home in the Capitol is what she's used to, especially not the way that the blue eyed man with the money that saved her family's life and bought her companionship looks at her, or how he makes her feel.  </p><p>(A rewrite/complete overhaul of my fic from years ago -- If The City Never Sleeps (Then That Makes Two).)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If The City Never Sleeps (Then That Makes Two)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147025) by [lesbianophelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia). 



        My mother will never forgive me for this. She’s trying to hide her tears - for what might be the first time in my life,but that doesn’t mean that I can watch her miserable face in the mirror while she pulls the comb through my hair. At least this way, with my eyes trained on the skirt of the dress she gave me after my bath, I can avoid seeing meeting her eyes. I know she’s disappointed, and that’s almost enough to make me feel awful about what I’ve done. I can pretend, if I’m not seeing her face, that the sniffles I hear aren’t because she’s crying . What I can’t do is look at her and pretend that what I’ve done isn’t completely unforgivable. I need to believe  that she’ll get over this. That she’ll forgive me. That _Prim_ will forgive me.  
  
          But I know better than to allow myself to hope for Prim’s forgiveness. She’s barely spoken a word to me since the Peacekeepers showed up with the summons. I couldn’t even take comfort in the fact that she still stayed in our bed rather than crawling in with our mother like she used to when she was little. It didn’t mean she wasn’t angry. It just meant that she knew that the time I had left in Twelve was limited, and that it wasn’t worth it to sleep in the bed with my mother just to prove her point. I almost want to apologize, but I can’t. What I did wasn’t _wrong_. And they’ll think it was if I say that I’m sorry. I can’t afford that.  


          What I did was necessary. They may never believe me about that, but it doesn’t matter. I know. Prim wouldn’t be here to hate me if I hadn’t done it. My mother wouldn’t be here to be disappointed. And if I had told them . . . well, she would have been hating me for a lot longer.  My mother cuts the ends off of my hair and my mind begins to wander. Gale hated me when he found out.  
  
          Gale, who is down in the mines today. I would be, too, if the marriage license hadn’t meant my immediate termination from the Capitol workforce. I may still be in District Twelve, but since I signed that paperwork -- with a Peacekeeper’s eyes boring into the back of my head -- I’m officially a resident of the Capitol. It’s laughable, really. I couldn’t even pass for a _merchant_ , even in my mother’s old dress from when she lived above the Apothecary.  
  
          I wonder what Gale would think of that. Or of any of this.  He doesn’t know that I was ordered, though he suspected it would happen. I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, and he’ll still be in the mines by the time my husband’s train arrives. But he’ll hear of it one way or another. Everyone will know what happened to me. They’ll see me at the station today, or they’ll figure it out when my family isn’t mourning my disappearance.  
  
          Gale won’t gloat, when he hears. He _was_ right, of course, that some Capitol man would like what he saw in the registry, but he won’t _gloat_. Not to Prim. I have to hope he was wrong about the everything else -- about how miserable my life would be if someone ordered me. He was the one to tell me how Prim would never forgive me. He wouldn’t, either, but I don’t think I care so much about that. Gale’s forgiveness is so hard to come by that it doesn’t seem worth hoping for, and besides, it doesn’t matter whether or not Gale forgives me -- not if I’m in the Capitol.  
           
          But that hasn’t stopped him from trying to make sure I knew how upset he was I didn’t expect to see him in the woods again after he told me how stupid I was being, but he’s showed up week after week, not missing an opportunity to tell me he thought I was an idiot.  Like there was some way I could get out of this. I’m sure that he would try to convince me to run for it, if he could. It would be pointless, of course. My family would be punished if my husband didn’t leave here with his wife. If they were _lucky,_ they wouldn’t get the money that Peeta Mellark paid for me. If they weren’t . . .  


      "My parents’ marriage was arranged,” my mother says, breaking the uncomfortable silence that has settled over the three of us. Before I remember she’s mad at me, I glance up, catching Prim’s eye in the mirror. I’m more surprised than I should be when she’s willing to look at me. She looks just as baffled as I feel, so it probably has nothing to do with forgiveness and everything to do with the fact that she’s confused. Our mother never talks about her past. I don’t know that I’ve _ever_ heard anything about her parents before now.

 

       “It wasn’t the same,” she says, pinning a strand of hair against my scalp so tightly that it hurts. I don’t complain, though. Whatever she’s planning to do with my hair, it isn’t worth fighting. If I had it my way, I would just wear my hair in a braid, but that probably isn’t fancy enough for my new husband. “They had a few months of courtship before any paperwork was signed. But everyone knew that they were going to get married at the end of it. They were as good as married while they were still kids. It’s very common in Town, you know.”

 

       No. I didn’t know. It doesn’t look like Prim did, either. She clears her throat. “Were they _happy_?” she asks. It’s a valid question, if not a little bit naive. But then, Prim is almost sixteen and I was hardly _naive_ at that age. Either she’s pretending things will be okay to make me feel better, or I’ve managed to do the impossible and keep her optimistic in a world that would have crushed her like a bug if she had to face it. I don’t think she’s happy enough with me to want me feel better.  
  
          I have to admit I’m curious, too. I didn’t even consider that they might be _happy_ before Prim asked. How _could_ they be? Again, I think of Gale.  
  
          _“And what about Prim? Do you think she’ll be happy knowing you sure as hell won’t be? Do you really think that she’d trade her sister for a bag of grain and a couple of coins?” he had asked, and then, when he didn’t respond, he had tugged on his hair. “_ Katniss _,” he had groaned, and I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time he called me that.  He always called me Catnip, even when we disagreed. Until now.“How could you be so_ stupid _?”  
  
_           I’m not sure that I was _stupid_ , exactly. But he was right about the other things. I know I won’t stand a chance of being happy in the Capitol. This feels nothing at all like the giddiness that followed me around after I signed up for the registry and finally had the money to feed my family. _  
_     

    “My parents? Yes, they were,” my mother says. She goes on after that about how it took them a little while to get there, but they were very happy together. That her mother said that the first year was the hardest. That her father was still helping to run the shoe shop at this point -- I didn’t realize that her father had ever worked in the shoe shop -- and how with all the running around, she had the hardest time having dinner ready at the right time every night. I’m not really listening. I don’t know how to respond to any of this. Prim obviously doesn’t either, but thankfully, we don’t have to.  
  
          Something like a wistful smile crosses her face. I wonder if she’s saved up all of her stories just so that she could fill silences like this.  
  
          “I don’t think that had much to do with the shoe shop, though. Even when all my father had to do was run the apothecary, he ended up coming upstairs late. She said he’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached. She wasn’t used to being a wife, and he wasn’t used to being a husband. They always liked to tell me that there were _adjustments_ to be made. Silly little things. Mom got it in her head that she’d be the one to wash the dishes and he would dry, but Dad grew up washing and didn’t mind it. Mom wanted a quilt on the bed year round and Dad slept so hot that he preferred just the sheet in the summer. Stuff like that.”

 

       Is this supposed to make me feel better, hearing about marriage being hard? My scalp is starting to ache, but I don’t dare complain. I almost _like_ it, letting her fuss over me like this. I could do without the stories about my grandparents, but that’s just because I don’t _care_ about them. They disowned my mother for marrying my father, and they _must_ have known about the accident at the mines. But they didn’t do anything to help. Still, I can deal with the stories if it means that she’s present today. It’s been years since I’ve had a mother – a _real_ one, at least, who I would allow to touch me. How much time have I spent shrugging off her every attempt at coming near me? Holding it against her that she locked herself away in her own little world after my father’s death? I think of how I’ve been confused by Prim’s willingness to sit up with her at night and wonder if she really has been well all these years and I’ve just shut her out.

 

       “I’m sure you’ll find the same,” she continues. “Being a wife . . .” she trails off, leaving me to wonder what she was going to say. Was she honestly about to say that it’s something I’ll _like_? If so, she’s either lying to herself or to me. I can’t decide which is more forgivable. “The marriages in town . . . that was how the Apothecary has stayed in the right hands all these years. It was a trade, of sorts, between us and, say, a butcher with too many sons, or a grocer with too many daughters. It was a good deal all around. More than fair. The new couple got a shop to run and a nice place to live, and they learned to get along just fine. But they had to learn to be friends, first.”

 

          “I’m not very good at making friends,” I say. It’s supposed to be a joke. Supposed to lighten the mood and draw her out of her shell, because if she retreats because she’s spent too much time remembering the past today, things will be bad for Prim once I’m gone, and I refuse to let that happen.

 

          “Oh, Katniss,” she says. “You’ll learn. You’ll learn to like him.” _You have to_. She doesn’t say it, but I know it’s what she means. It’s impossible for her to imagine me living in a marriage like the one I’ve signed on for when she had such a happy marriage. “He’s already made up his mind about you, I’d say, if he’s coming all the way out here. Marriage is always an adjustment in the beginning, but you’ll learn to grow together. You just have to give him a chance.”

 

          I know that she means well. That she’s just trying to give me the best chance at being happy out there as she can. It still irritates me, though, that she expects me to act nothing like myself. I grit my teeth as she finishes my hair. Is she pulling on purpose?  
  
          “You’ll see,” she says. “I remember finally realizing what my mother was talking about, about her frustration with the adjustments to be made. With how hard it was to make dinner and have it go cold on the table. It was right after I married your father,” she says. “I had intended to have dinner waiting on the table, hot, when he got back from the mines that first Monday. Only, I underestimated just how long his shift would be . . .” she trails off, lost in her own mind for a moment.  
  
          It’s quiet. I know that now that she’s mentioned Dad, she’ll be exhausted soon. I’m not sure what to do – I never am. It’s usually Prim who takes care of her when she’s like this. Only, my mother is still working on me, and I have no option but to sit here and let her. I already spent my morning in the woods and my afternoon in the bath. It’s the least I can do to spend these last couple of hours letting my mother fuss over me.  
  
          I hate to admit it, but there’s something nice about her even _wanting_ to fuss over me.  Even if I can’t help but to be irritated that today is about how much she misses him when his loss has never been mine to grieve. Even as I signed up for this, I hated her for being so closed off from us. For letting us starve when I was eleven because she was so caught up in loving him that she forgot to take care of her daughters. But I’m not even an Everdeen anymore, and I don’t want to leave without at least trying to make things right between us.  
  
          “What happened?” I ask. I’m not sure I care about this, either. Whatever her marriage was like, mine hardly seems like the same institution. She gives a breathy little laugh, like it hasn’t occurred to her that she stopped speaking.  
         

          “I waited and waited. It was dark by the time I heard him come in. And then, of course, he still had to wash up . . . I remember I just burst into tears when he came out and dinner was ice cold. He wouldn’t even let me heat it up. Your father – he apologized for being late, and then he pulled my chair out for me and he went on and on like it was the best meal he had ever tasted.”  
  
          “Do you think your husband is going to be like that?” Prim asks. “Kind?”

 

          “We’ll see,” I say, not wanting to lie. Only, then I feel guilty. Lying is the _least_ I can do. If it’s going to make Prim feel better, I could tell her anything. “I bet he will be,” I say. “I mean, she’s right. He didn’t have to come here. That means something, right? He could have just – just tossed me on a bridal train.”

 

          They’re not actually called _bridal trains_. They’re just a line of trains known for being the cheapest way to travel from district to district – which is still significantly more than anyone from Twelve can afford. The majority of the citizens who order their spouses are willing to pay an exorbitant amount for the bride herself, but not for her to travel to the Capitol comfortably. It’s why I was so surprised to hear that rather than putting me on the first train to the Capitol, Peeta Mellark, whoever he is, decided to make the trip out here himself.

  
          My mother doesn’t respond. Instead, she runs her hands over my hair, as if to make sure everything is pinned down tightly enough. “I wore my hair like this on my wedding day,” she says with another wistful smile. “My mother had these earrings. . .”  
  
          I know the earrings she’s talking about before she forgets to describe them. I sold them at the Hob. They were beautiful, with little blue stones on them. We ate for a week off of the money I got from them.

         

          “We know he has enough money,” I say, addressing Prim again. “I mean, if he’s spending it on a bride _and_ a trip all the way out to Twelve. So, we know he’ll keep me fed.” Then, as a thought crosses my mind, something like a laugh slips out. It sounds frantic even to my ears, and I hope desperately that they don’t think anything of it. “And he’ll keep _you_ fed, too, Little Duck. That’s . . . that’s really all I could ask for.”

 

          It’s all that counts. I signed up for this to keep Prim fed. Only, something about this hits a chord with my mother, because then she’s really crying. “Oh, Katniss. We didn’t know,” she says, not for the first time. “I’m sorry.”

 

          It’s that quick. The spell is broken. For the last day and a half, it’s been something new and strange, having a mother. A real one, who was at least _trying_ to earn that title. But now it’s over. I can’t imagine how my mother didn’t know. She may not have noticed that _she_ wasn’t eating, but she didn’t even have any suspicions that something was wrong when Prim started wasting away. She didn’t even realize that I had _done something_ to fix it when things got better. Did she think it wasn’t a problem, me coming back from the woods with an empty game bag? Did she think that the measly amount of money I was getting from the mines was enough to sustain us? If she counts as a mother at all, some desperate, angry part of myself calls her a bad one.

 

          I remember when I came home with the money they gave me for registering and what felt like such an obvious lie about the heavy load I had somehow managed to completely trade away at the Hob. I hadn’t wanted to be caught, and maybe it isn’t fair to be angry at her, but I am anyway. I had hidden the money in a sock in the bottom of my game bag, and every day I felt anxiety and guilt gnawing at me, because surely they would find out. And then – well, it would have looked something like it looks today, where they’re both so upset with me that they can’t even look me in the eye.

 

          Only, they didn’t find out. They were, thankfully, oblivious. Still, I was careful. I spread the money out, even though more came in. Rather than going to Town and buying a new school dress for Prim’s birthday like I so desperately wanted to, I bought a patched one from the Hob and told her that I worked out a deal with the woman selling it -- that she was a fan of my rabbits and that it took some bartering, but I figured something out. That Prim shouldn’t thank me, because she needed new clothes. I had thought for a terrible moment at New Year’s that she figured me out when she looked down at the orange in her hand, but she hadn’t. She was overwhelmed, instead, at the presents I had managed. I thought that she knew that I got the money for them by signing up, but she just thought that I was working myself harder than I should have. She remembered how very sick I had been just a few months earlier, from all of the extra shifts I was picking up in the mines and the early mornings I was spending in the woods beforehand. She thought that I did it to buy her a pretty pink dress for her birthday. Not that I was working so that we could survive past New Year’s.

 

          It kept going like that. I kept telling lie after lie and expecting them to figure it out. I almost couldn’t keep track of my own stories. I would go to the Hob with cash and come up with stories on the way home. Sae gave me paraffin and thread in exchange for a wild dog I had taken down. The baker only had loaves of white bread that were old enough to trade, so that’s why I brought our mother’s favorite home. The man selling the shoes in the Hob wanted first claim on any strawberries I gathered this summer in exchange for a discounted pair of shoes for Prim. That the man in the Hob was willing to take some squirrels in exchange for a pair of socks that were thick enough to keep my feet from blistering inside of my father’s old boots. I wasn’t questioned, but I was ready, just in case they decided that they cared where these things were coming from.

 

          I expected to be caught. Over and over again, I expected to slip up. To say something that would give everything away. Maybe I did, and my mother was just too blind to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t hear the coins that made my pocket heavy. I still went to the woods, of course. Still came home with the squirrels and the rabbits that I could get. But it was the registry that saved our lives that winter. Prim would have died if I hadn’t signed up. We all would have.

 

          And my mother is telling me that she didn’t know. She’s crying, like this is harder for her than it is for me. Maybe it is. I dig around for some kind of emotion and come with a mixture of hatred and pity that confuses me. She’s crying, much more than she did when the Peacekeepers arrived with the summons telling me when my husband would be here. If I don’t stop her now, she may not snap back by the time I leave. That’s when Prim will really need her. It’s more for my sister’s sake that I do it, but I’d like to pretend that the pity has managed to win out, for once.

 

          “It’s okay, Mom,” I soothe, as if my mother is the one who needs to be comforted today.The word almost burns as it comes out. I usually get around calling my mother that, or anything, but I think it might work. ”Don’t apologize. I knew what I was doing.”Today, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to _want_ a mother. It’s on me if that stupid mistake makes things harder for me, not her. “It’s going to be okay,” I say.

 

          That much is true. I don’t know that _I’ll_ be okay, but Prim will. That’s what’s important. Even if my mother checks out again, Prim will have money and food. She’ll survive. “It’ll be okay,” I repeat.  “I’ll be fine.” That’s probably a lie. There's no way of knowing if I’ll be fine or not. I can’t have her wailing, though. Not if I want Prim to believe me for a second.  
  
          She excuses herself with a mumbled apology and a comment about starting some tea, and then I’m alone with Prim. I stare at myself in the mirror, thinking about what she said. If this is the hairstyle she wore when she got married, I’m not sure that I want my hair to be pinned up like this. I imagine tearing the pins out. It’s petty. I’m sure I don’t look much like her, even in her clothes and hairstyle, but I don’t want to be _anything_ like her.  
  
          “You’ll go to the Hawthorne’s if she gets bad again, won’t you?” I ask, turning to face Prim. “I already talked to Gale, and –”

 

“She’ll be fine,” Prim interrupts. “And so will I. I’m not a little girl anymore, Katniss.”

         

          “I know,” I lie. “But just in case.”

 

          “You can’t expect her to be _okay_ when you drop something like this on us.”

 

          “You don’t remember what it was like the first time,” I say. She can’t. She was too young. Or maybe she doesn’t remember what it was like when it was different -- when we had both a father and a mother.  “You can’t be angry at me for being concerned. We were starving – all of us! All of us, Prim – and she didn’t notice.” I’m whispering, but my voice is harsh.

 

          Prim shakes her head. “She didn’t know because we kept it a secret.”

 

          “I’m not talking about this time,” I say, clenching my jaw. “I’m talking about when we were younger, and --”

 

          “Well, I _am_ talking about this time. You should have told us. She thought . . . Katniss, she thought it was a lean winter, not that we were starving to death. We’re always okay. She thought – _we_ thought you would have told us if it was serious. So we could have done something.”   

 

          “I _did_ do something,” I say, annoyance creeping into my voice even though I don’t mean to snap at her. “You were taking patients and missing school and there was nothing else we could have done. Where do you think the food came from? I didn’t do this for fun, Prim.”

 

          It’s quiet. I grit my teeth, waiting for the next argument. If this was Gale, he would be calling me awful names again. Accusing me of selling myself, like the girls who line up at old Cray’s door for a few coins. Only, worse. Because I won’t even end up in my own bed when it’s over.  
  
          It’s quiet for a long moment while I wait, but Prim doesn’t call me a _Capitol whore._ Prim doesn’t do anything that Gale did, though. “How many times did you sign up?” she asks, her voice hard. “How long have you been hiding this?”  
  
          I’m not sure how to answer her question. “Once,” I say. “I just signed up once. My entry would have been up in a month.” They print a new catalogue every few months. Not that it matters. When she asks if I would have done it again, she’s so angry that I have to look away again.

 

          “Yes,” I say. “As soon as I could have.”

 

          “And you wouldn’t have told me.”

 

          It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “No. I wouldn’t have.”

 

          “Who knows that you signed up? Other than all the – all the guys in the Capitol?”

 

          “Gale,” I say. She’ll find out that he knows when he’s not stunned at the idea when he finds out that the worst happened. It’s better for her to hear it from me. To hate me while I’m still here. “He knows. But I didn’t tell him.”

 

          “How did he find out if you didn’t tell him?” she asks.

 

          “Someone told him,” I say.  
  
          “Who?”  
  
          “The woman who took the picture must have been a gossip, or something. I _don’t know_ , Prim.”

 

          She rolls her eyes. “And what did he say, Katniss? Did he tell you that this was a bad idea?”

 

          “Yes. But it wasn’t up to him. And this was the only way I could keep us – keep _you_ – fed.”

 

          “That can’t be true,” Prim says, but I know that her resolve is crumbling. It’s okay. It’s not like I expected her to thank me. “There had to have been something.”

 

          “There was,” I say. “It was this. They gave me so much money to put my face in their catalogue. I didn’t think that anyone would order me but . . . there’s more money coming to you. He had to pay for me -- to marry me. You’ll have more than enough.”

 

          “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” she asks. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other.”

 

          “Because you would try to talk me out of it,” I say. “And I’d rather you hate me with a full belly than while we all starved to death.”

 

          She gapes at me, but before she can respond, there’s a knock at the door, and I get out of having to hear whatever it is that she’s going to say.

                                                                  

  
          The man I see when I open the door is overdressed for District Twelve, even with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled halfway up his forearms, and I know who he is immediately. I can feel the dread settling in my stomach, low and heavy. I open my mouth to ask if I can help him, but no words come out.

          “Hi there,” he says, his voice quiet but his Capitol accent noticeable nonetheless. “I was going to ask if this is the Everdeen house . . . but . . . you’re Katniss, aren’t you?”

 

          I’ve never heard my name said that way before. “Yes,” I say, and I can barely hear my voice over the pounding of my heart. What is he doing here? I was supposed to have _hours_. And how did he find me? “That’s me.”

          He grins, his teeth perfectly white and straight, not sharpened to a point like I heard was the fashion years ago, after one of the victors of the Hunger Games had the same done. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” he says. “I’m Peeta Mellark, which I should have led with, probably.” He reaches out, as if to shake my hand, and then thinks better of it. I think it’s because I didn’t reach for it quickly enough. At any rate, he ends up running his hand through his hair.

 

          If he notices that I wait a beat too long before I say, “It’s good to meet you, too,” he doesn’t show it. “Do you want to come in?” I ask. I don’t want to invite him, but manners are important in the Capitol, apparently, and I don’t want him to decide that I’m rude.

 

          “I would love to,” he says. “Thank you.”  
  
          “How did you find me?” I ask as he steps inside, and then I realize my mistake and try to make my voice softer. “I know it could be really easy to get turned around out here, I mean. Did you have any trouble finding my house?”

 

          “No trouble at all. Your goat made for an excellent landmark when they realized I had no idea where the slag heap was.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Or the . . . Hob? Am I saying that right?”

 

          I nod.

 

          “Basically, they realized I was hopeless and cut me loose. But I found you! That’s what counts, I think.” He gives me a nervous little laugh, eyes darting around the room.

 

          “Yeah,” I say. “You can come in, if you’d like. You don’t have to stay by the door. Do you want something to drink? I think there’s some tea in the kitchen.”

 

          He’s normal looking enough, I suppose. Stocky, with carefully styled blond hair and blue eyes. _He could be worse_ , I think. I’ve seen Capitol citizens on TV who have had so many modifications that they were barely recognizable as human. He’s definitely human, and not even an unattractive one, at that. He could have dyed his skin green or something. Still, it’s weird to see him in my house. To his credit, it isn’t because of anything he’s doing, it’s just because it’s clear he doesn’t belong. _I’ll be like that in his house_ , I think. It isn’t a comfort.  
  
          “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m realizing now how rude it is of me to just barge in like this.”  
  
          “No, I’m sorry. I’m not sure -- I think they gave me the wrong time. I thought I was supposed to report at the station at Two, and . . . clearly that was wrong.”  
  
          Peeta won’t hear of it. “I wasn’t supposed to,” he says, following me into the kitchen, where Prim is at the table and my mother is busying herself at the stove. “I _told_ them that the train was moving fast, but they all laughed,” he says, and then laughs. “No, I’m kidding. I didn’t actually . . .”  
  
          He trails off when he notices that my mother and sister are staring at him. I’m not sure how to introduce Peeta. I’m not sure I could call him my husband if I tried, but if I try to get around it, he may be upset. “This is my family,” I say instead. “My sister, Prim, and my mother.”

 

          They both look a little surprised – we never expected him to step foot in our house – but they manage to shake his hand. He introduces himself, thankfully, letting me off the hook. I’m surprised, almost, that he doesn’t mention that he’s married to me. He must know that they already know who he is just by his name. Or his accent.    
  
          “Is there enough tea left?” I ask.  
  
          “Yes. I’ll get it,” my mother says.. “Prim, why don’t you get the other chair from the bedroom?”  
  
          “So, Prim,” he repeats idly as she leaves the room. “Is that short for something?”

          “Primrose,” my mother and I both answer at the same time.  
  
          “It’s short for Primrose,” I say, as if he didn’t hear. “They grow wild around here. You can sit down, if you’d like. Do you want sugar in your tea?”  
  
          “No, thank you,” he says. “And I’m fine standing, really. I’ve been sitting down for the last -- I don’t even know how long.”  
  
          I’m not sure if he means that or if it’s because there are only two chairs at the table, but I don’t argue.

 

          “Milk?” I ask.  


          “Yes, please, thank you,” he says.  
  
          And then another thought hits me. Maybe he doesn’t want to sit because he’s ready to go. “Does the return train leave early, too?” I ask. “Should I get my things?”

 

          “No, you don’t need to get your things,” he says. “I’m sorry. I guess I figured someone would tell you, since I had to turn my return plans in. We don’t leave until tomorrow.”

 

          “Is everything okay?” I ask.  
  
          “What? Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks.

 

“In the -- with the train. If we can't leave right away.” I feel like an idiot, trying to explain what I mean. Especially because of the way that he’s staring at me. He doesn’t seem to think it’s stupid question, but I don’t like it, his eyes being trained on me. “I thought . . . you know.”

  
          “Everything is just fine,” he assures me. “I wanted to meet your family. See where you’re from.” His voice has dropped while he spoke, so I have to lean in a little bit closer when he says, “I want to get to know you,” as if that’ll make me hear better even though there’s a good yard between us. Suddenly, he laughs. “It seemed like that would be better to try on solid ground, so I got a room in town. And besides, you’ll see my family soon enough. I figure it’s only fair, right?”  


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  
          It's quiet for a long moment. I have no idea how to respond. He wantsto stay in Twelve to _get to know me_? I had been so sure that this trip out here was just because he wanted to be sure of what he had invested in before he carted me off to the Capitol.But he looks so earnest that it seems like something different. Like he means what he’s said about wanting to know me. It’s not even like he can get a refund if he hates me.  “That makes sense,” I lie, giving him the mug.    
  
          “Thank you,” he says with a smile.  
  
  
          “We can’t let you stay in town,” my mother says. “Not if you came to meet us. You can stay here with us.”  
  
          I almost feel bad for him. He looks so stunned, glancing between the two of us. I can feel myself getting irritated, but I’m not sure why. We aren’t alone, and he must have known she was listening, but he wasn’t talking to _her_.  And besides, I don’t know that I want him here tonight. “I, ah,” he begins. “Well, I would hate to impose, and I know you didn’t have much warning before I showed up.”

  
          And besides, our house is too small for us to have company. Fancy Capitol company who will no doubt turn their nose up at the fact that we all share a room and two mattresses. As if she can tell what I’m thinking, my mother clears her throat. “Prim and I can make ourselves scarce,” she says, her voice low. “Give you two some privacy.”  
  
          I think I hate her. How could she want me to have privacy with him? I thought I had another day.  
  
          “Oh. No. Please don’t -- I’d hate for you to feel like you have to go to that much trouble.”  


          Prim sets the chair down at the table and gives me a look. “It’s no trouble,” she says when I don’t. “Not at all. It makes sense for you to stay with us.”  

 

          He watches me, like he’s trying to figure out what the right answer is. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, not liking the fact that I’m the center of attention.  
  
          “I think it would be better for everyone if you stayed here,” I lie. “That is, of course, if you’d liketo.”

 

          “Are you sure you don't mind having company on such short notice?” he asks, and I nod, looking much more resolute than I feel, I’m sure. “As much as I appreciate the offer . . . which, thank you -- very much -- for even . . . I appreciate it. But my things are already in town. I checked in this morning and . . .” he trails off, looking sheepish.  


          I’m not sure how I feel about him wandering around the district unaccompanied. He’s obviously not used to it, and I don’t want him going around telling everyone he ordered me, either. “I can go with you,” I offer. “To pick your bags up.”  
  
          Clearly, the offer surprises him, but he seems pleased. He agrees to stay for lunch and go afterwards. Fitting four of us around the table for the meal is hard. There are three chairs and barely enough room for as many plates, and Peeta still doesn’t want to take one of the seats. I know on a normal day my mother would be upset with me for doing as much, but today isn’t a normal day, so I suggest we eat in the living room.  
  
          I don’t realize that Prim and my mother didn’t follow us until we’re both on the couch, bowls on our laps. Peeta sits as far away from me as he can, but I’m nearly positive that it’s for my benefit. “So, um, how was your trip?” I ask. I don’t think I care, exactly, if he was comfortable on his way here, but I can’t take the silence. Not when I know that every moment that passes is one that he’s spending making up his mind about whether or not I’m the kind of woman he thought I would be when he ordered me.  
  
          “It was good!” he says. “I’ve never actually left the Capitol before. And I was kidding earlier, when I said I complained about the speed, but . . . it was really pretty fast.” He laughs, just a little, and then it’s quiet. “This is really good,” he says, nodding down at his bowl of stew.  
  
          It’s leftover from last night, but the best we had on short notice. My mother is going to cook up the fish I brought back this morning for dinner tonight, but there wasn’t time to have it for lunch. “Prim made it,” I say. I don’t tell him about how it’s _my_ game in there, because he didn’t pay for a hunter. I take a second to steel myself before I say, “I could show you how sometime, maybe.”  
  
          “That would be great,” he says with a smile. I realize he’s studying me when I steal a glance at him, and that’s when I realize just how blue his eyes are. I’ve heard of modifications in the Capitol, but they look natural. Like a merchant’s eyes, almost. When he knows I’ve caught him staring, he looks away. It’s strange. I thought he had bought the right to look at me however long he wanted. “Do you like to cook?” he asks, just as I stand up and smooth the skirt of my dress out to ask if he’s ready to get going.  
  
          “Yes,” I say. I don’t like it, but I don’t dislike it, either. “Are you ready?”  
  
          Again, he follows me into the kitchen, babbling the whole way about how he’s fine to go whenever. I try to stop to wash the plates, but again, my mother takes over. I wonder what she’s doing. I would have liked a few more minutes before I had to be completely alone with him, but even if I get a moment or two to cram my feet into my mother’s dress shoes, we have to leave relatively soon.    
  
  
          We walk a ways in silence, and then he clears his throat. “Are you sure it’s all right if I stay with you?” he asks.  
  
          “My mother doesn’t offer stuff like that if she doesn’t mean it.”  
  
          “It’s not exactly . . . it’s not your mother I’m concerned about,” he says cautiously. “I don’t mind staying in town,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to let me stay with you just because we’re . . . we . . .”  
  
          “We’re married,” I say.  
  
          “We are. But it’s not . . . I don’t -- forty-eight hours ago, you didn’t even know I _existed_ ,” he says, stopping in his tracks so he can turn to face me. “And now we’re _married_ and I’m standing in your house, drinking your tea and talking to your mother? It’s okay if it’s too much.”  
  
          I stare at him. He’s right. It _is_ too much. But I don’t think I can tell him that. I think I’m supposed to tell him that it’s fine. That he’s my husband. That I’m at all ready for this. The words won’t come.  
  
          “It won’t hurt my feelings if you want me to sleep in town tonight. Honest,” he says. “If you’re not sure about this -- staying at that Inn might be a good way to sort of . . . ease into this. For both of us,” he says.  
  
          “Do you _want_ to stay with us?” I ask.  
  
          He breathes out a little laugh. “I -- ah, it’s . . . Katniss, I’m asking what you’re comfortable with.”  
          “I know. So am I,” I say. It’s quiet for a long moment, and I watch him as he kicks a rock off of the pathway. Whatever his answer is, it depends on mine. I clear my throat. “I don’t want you to stay in town,” I say. It’s not a lie. I don’t know what I want, but I think this might be a bad start if I don’t let him be around me. He looks over at me and I look away. “If you want to,” I add. “If you want to stay in Town, I can deal with my mother.”  
  
          “No, I would love to stay with you. But . . . would I be able to get away with sleeping on the couch?” he asks.  
  
          I’m surprised, and he must be able to tell.  
  
          “It’s just -- it goes back to what I said earlier, about it being too much too fast,” he says. “And it’s not -- it has nothing to do with you. I just . . . I can’t think of any first date where the couple could share a room -- or a bed! -- in her parent’s house.”  
  
          This is not a date. “Okay,” I say. “Um, my mother and Prim will stay away, like she said, so I could take the couch. You’re a guest. And you were traveling . . .”  
  
          “No! No. Absolutely not. I can’t let you do that,” he says. “I’m more than happy to sleep on the couch. Please.”  
  
          It’s probably incredibly bad manners, but I don’t want to argue with him, so I relent. Just like I do when he asks if he can make breakfast tomorrow and if I could bring him somewhere to pick up supplies.  
  
          “You’re all being so generous to let me stay with you,” he explains as I try to decide where to take him. The Hob is out, obviously, but I’m as out of place in Town as he would be in the Seam, and the stares we’re getting are proof enough of that. “I make awesome pancakes, and it’s the least I can do.”  
  
  
          Everyone seems to immediately realize that Peeta is from the Capitol when we head through Town, but not as clearly as the man at the inn does. He’s obviously confused about why Peeta would order me. It’s not that the man knows me, really, it’s just the fact that I’m Seam - a dime a dozen and indiscernible from the others, other than by the man standing beside me.  
  
          “So _that’s_ why you’re here,” the man says, eyebrows raising. Peeta turns pink all the way up to his ears. “Are you sure you don’t want to use the room before you check out?”  
  
          My eyebrows pull together as I try to figure out what he means. Use it for what?  
  
          “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t rather have some privacy when you break her in.”  
  
          _Break her in._ I feel sick. That’s what my mother is trying to facilitate by leaving us alone tonight, whether or not Peeta wants to sleep on the couch. I wonder if that’s a lie. If he just wants me to be comfortable until it’s time.  


          Peeta opens and closes his mouth once or twice, and then shakes his head resolutely. “I don't -- that's not. I don't plan on _breaking_. . . Is that supposed to be _funny_?”  he asks.  
  
          The innkeeper doesn’t look ashamed at all. “Have you been to the Seam yet? They all share rooms out there. You don’t want to be around her family the first time you --”  
  
          “ _Hey,_ ” he says, his voice low in warning, My cheeks are burning, but there’s no out. Not really. “You’re being very rude.” I’m stunned for a moment. The innkeeper surely isn’t used to be spoken to like this, but only a Capitol citizen could stand up to a merchant like this. “Choose your next words carefully.”  
  
          He had been so mild, earlier, but he looks angry, now. His arms crossed over his chest, looking completely irritated.  
  
          “Um,” I say softly, and the anger of his face melts away as he turns to face me.  
  
          “I’m sorry,” he says, to me, not the innkeeper, and then turns to face the counter. “I don’t want to cause a scene. Can I get my things and check out?”  
  
           
           
  
          My mother tries to talk him out of insisting that they stay here and I can’t help but to be a little bit irritated. I know that she’s trying to be a good hostess and that it’s expected for us to at least sleep in the same room tonight, but I don’t want to share a bed with Peeta.  
  
          Suddenly, it hits me that we’re _married_. That I should be worried about something other than just sharing a mattress with him tonight. Thankfully, he’s serious about sleeping on the couch, and I can tell just based on how surprised he looks at my mother’s insistence. He steals a glance over at me.  
           
          “Um, Ms. Everdeen, I really appreciate you offering the bed, but I’m more than happy to take the couch.”  I try to swallow down my nerves. It won’t do any good. I should save my worrying for tomorrow night, when we’re alone. “Just you letting me stay here at all is incredibly generous,” he assures her. “Katniss and I were actually talking about this on the way into town. I would just be more comfortable this way.”  
  
          I’m surprised that he doesn’t repeat what he said earlier, about it being too much too fast. I’m almost glad, though. At least this way it’s not my fault.  
  
          “Do you want to see the goat?” I ask. I’m not sure why I think he would. I just want a way to get him away from my mother before she tries to find another way to convince him to share the bed with me tonight.  
  
          He looks surprised. “Sure,” he says.  
  
          I’m surprised that he doesn’t say it’s because of me. He glances over at me and gives me a smile.  
  
          “And if you’ll excuse me, I’m supposed to go meet a goat, I think,” he says lightly.  
  
          “I think I should put my boots on,” I say, ignoring my sister’s disapproving look as I swap the dress shoes for my father’s boots. I’m sure I’m quite a sight, with my stockings and my dress and my father’s shoes, but they beat the blue velvet things. “Her name is Lady,” I say. “She’s technically Prim’s.”  
  
          He follows me out outside, and then I come up short. Suddenly, I feel like an idiot. We’re both dressed too nicely to go into the pen. Especially Peeta, with his shiny shoes. “Um,” I say. “We don’t really have to go. I don’t . . .” I trail off. He actually looks kind of excited about it. I can’t imagine why. “You’re dressed so nicely. I don’t want you to ruin your shoes.”  
  
          “Oh. They’ll be fine,” he says, and then, because I must look distressed, he kneels down and rolls his pant legs up to the tops of his black socks. “How about this?” he asks softly, and it’s so strange that I feel myself smiling before I know that I think it’s funny. .

  
          “Fine,” I say. “I’d avoid the rocks if I were you.”  
  
          He gives me a dramatic wince, but dutifully follows me. I hop around the rocks, not because they’ll hurt my feet through my boots, but because he might need help knowing where to step. He follows my lead, stepping on a couple but hardly even making a face to show me that he noticed, and then he comes to stand beside me just in front of the pen.  
  
          “So, yeah,” I say. “This is the goat.”  
  
          “Can she eat anything?”  
  
          “She eats _everything_ ,” I say, and he laughs.  
  
          “I mean, like, as a treat. I don’t --” he laughs again, a little harder this time. “I don’t know the first thing about goats. Can you tell?” Lady is nuzzling his hand, and he looks delighted. “Hey, girl,” he says softly, and then to me, he says,“Do you breed her?”  
  
          When we have the money to invest in a meeting with the goat man, we do. I don’t say that, though. “Sometimes,” I tell him instead, petting the top of the goat’s head. “She’s a little gold mine.”  
  
          He laughs. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there.”  
  
          “What? With my mother?” I ask. “It’s fine. I’m sure you’re regretting giving up your room in Town, though.” It’s a joke. At least, I think it is.  
  
          “Not at all,” he says, looking serious. “It’s so generous of you all to have me here in the first place. I hate to seem ungrateful.”  
  
          “You don’t.”  
  
           
          My mother is still in the kitchen we come back in, working on dinner. Prim looks almost irritated, but thankfully not with me. “She’s upset because we don’t have enough greens for a salad,” she informs me, her voice low.  
  
          “Why do we need . . .?” I trail off when I realize why we need a salad. She’s pulling out all the stops for Peeta. “I mean, I guess there are still plenty of dandelions in the meadow.” I haven’t been out to pick them, yet. That’s another thing I’m leaving undone for Prim. I can’t help but to feel guilty for a moment, until I realize that Peeta Mellark has left them so rich she won’t _have_ to eat dandelions.  
  
          “Well, _I_ can’t go,” Prim says. “She has me working on the fish.”  
  
          I sigh. It’s ridiculous to try to impress Peeta. He’s seen where we live. We’re lucky he’s not laughing at us now, while we talk about this. I don’t want my mother to have a breakdown, though, so I relent. “Hey,” I say, forcing my voice to sound cheerful. “Have you ever had dandelion salad?”  
  
           
  
          It’s late afternoon, and though it’s hot, the meadow is well shaded.To my surprise, he kneels down and starts picking immediately. I set the bucket down next to him and settle in a few feet away, not realizing until it’s too late that I must have ripped my stockings by walking on my knees. We work in silence for a while. The bucket is half full by the time he asks me if I like to hike.  
  
          “Hike?” I repeat, so I can make sure I’m hearing him right. “In the woods?” It seems silly now, but I wasn’t sure if they even had woods in the Capitol.  
  
          He nods. “I’m sorry, that seemed like it came out of the blue, I know,” he says. Then he continues, talking about how he saw the mountains on the train and wondered then, but forgot to ask until now. I’m barely even listening until he says, “I was just wondering what you do for fun.”  
  
          For fun _._ I don’t think I’ve ever done something just _for fun_. I think of hiking, but discount that immediately. It’s not that I’ve ever disliked hiking, but it’s never been something I’ve done for fun. It’s always been to get food.  
  
          Swimming. That’s my next thought, only, any swimming I’ve done has been during a hunting trip and has usually been so that I could gather tubers or cool off so that I could get back to work. I _like_ hunting, but I can’t help but to wonder if that counts.  
  
          “Oh, you know . . .” I say. I have no idea, but I can't tell him that. “What do you do for fun?”  
  
          It doesn’t help that he answers without any hesitation. “I really like to paint,” he says. “I don’t do it as often as I’d like, though. Sketching requires a lot less cleanup,” he says. I nod, like I have any idea what he’s talking about. “Do you like to do that kind of stuff?” he asks.  
  
          I consider lying, but it would be too easy to get caught if he asked me any sort of question. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never done it before.”  
  
          He nods, considering this. “Would you like to try?” he asks.  
  
          “I don’t know. I’d like to see yours, though,” I say, telling myself it’s more self-preservation than a lie. I don’t want him to decide that I’m boring within a few hours of meeting me. “I’m sorry about all the walking,” I add. It doesn’t bother me, but I doubt he’s used to it. “Once we get back to my house we’ll stay there for the night.”  
  
          He gives me a smile. “I don’t mind,” he says. “This is . . . this has been a really good day,” he says earnestly, and I wonder what his measure for a good day is. “I'm really enjoying seeing District Twelve,” he adds. “It doesn’t look much like it did when I looked it up. Maybe it’s because I have such a great tour guide.”  
  
          I study him for a moment, trying to figure out what he means, and my confusion must be evident, because he shakes his head, just a little.  
  
          “I know,” he says. “I swear it was less embarrassing before I said it out loud.”  
  
          “What?” I ask.  
  
          “I just -- I was trying to figure out what you want to do back . . . when we get to the Capitol, and I remembered that my friend Annie and her husband Finnick spent a lot of time on the beach. He’s from Four, so . . .” he breathes out a little laugh. “But I didn’t know what kind of stuff you would like. And this was before I could just ask you! Obviously, I mean,” he laughs again. I wonder if he ever stops laughing or smiling. Surely it can’t be genuine. “So I figured that I could look it up and try to get some ideas for what to show you. Which is part of where the hiking question came from. That, and . . . well . . . the woods here kind of remind me of some of the national parks we have in the Capitol.”  
  
          “Oh,” I say. There’s a lot to respond to in what he just said, but I can’t think of anything worth saying. He’s put so much thought into finding something to do with me once he gets me to the Capitol.  
  
          “If you’re into hiking. Or camping or fishing or -- I don’t know what else. I’m running out of examples.”  
  
          “I would like that,” I say. A half-truth or a half-lie, I’m not sure which. I’ve never stayed in the woods overnight, and any hiking has been done to get food. “Is that . . . is that something you would be interested in?”  
  
          “I haven’t been camping since I was little,” he admits, rocking back to sit on his shins. “I can’t remember how old I was. Maybe eight or nine? I always liked it a lot, though.”  
  
          I nod, not sure how to respond. “I like it. Being outside.”  
  
          He grins at me and I look away.  


  
          He sits beside me during the meal and after. Thankfully, we’re not alone. Prim dragged in an old crate from outside for someone to sit on, and though Peeta tried to insist that he would be happy to sit on it, I insisted that he should get a real seat and took it.    
  
          Even once the dishes are cleared away, he keeps chattering about the meal. About how much he likes everything -- especially the salad he helped me make. Thankfully, he made enough small talk for the rest of us. As I help Prim bring the dishes to the sink, she whispers that he’s nervous, but that can’t be right.  
  
          My mother brings out a worn deck of cards I haven’t seen in years and suddenly my chest feels tight. These were my father’s card, both too precious and worthless to attempt selling in even the leanest of times. I take my seat and reach out to touch one of the cards before I can help myself, the torn edge so familiar under my fingertip.  
  
          I gather the cards up and sweep them towards myself so that I can shuffle. I’m not very good at it. My father always used to do tricks with the cards, making Prim and I squeal with delight, but I was too small to be taught. No one complains about how slow I am, though, as I cut the deck over and over again, weding smaller sections into the middle.  
  
          “What are we playing?” Peeta asks.  
  
          “Hearts,” I say, just as Prim insists that we play Rummy. “Prim always wants to play Rummy because she always wins,” I say, still fidgeting with the deck.  
  
          “Do you know either of those games, Peeta?” my mother asks.  
  
          “I know them both,” he says. “I haven’t played either in years, though, so I might need a refresher.”  
  
          “Capitol rules might be different, too,” my mother muses. “All right Katniss, deal us in.”  
  
          I do, and Peeta watches me. I can tell that he’s trying to focus on what my mother is saying as she explains how we play Rummy -- Prim looks like she’s gloating when I steal a glance up from the deck -- but his eyes keep wandering over to me.  
  
          Once I’ve finished dealing, I pick up my hand and Peeta follows suit. Prim and my mother have already been looking through the cards, but I think Peeta has been too focused on me to know that he could have done the same. I win the first round and almost stick my tongue out at Prim’s pout before I remember that Peeta is here and I should be on my best behavior.  
  
          Prim deals next, and then my mother. I don’t like it, knowing that Peeta is supposed to shuffle the cards. I don’t know that I trust him to deal them, which is ridiculous, since he’s been holding them already. “Is it my deal?” he asks when he notices that the deck is closest to him. He taps them against the table to straighten them out and then shuffles them just the way my father did. I cough to cover the sharp breath I suck in.  
  
          “You’re good at that,” Prim says.  
  
          Peeta looks a little sheepish. “Lots of practice,” he says. “I used to play a lot of cards.”  


          I lose track of how many rounds we play. I keep expecting my mother to go to sleep, but she stays up later than I’ve ever known her to without a patient on our table. It makes sense, I suppose, that she wouldn’t want to go to bed. This time tomorrow, I’ll be gone. Even stranger than having Peeta around the table is the fact that I’ll never sit around this table with them again once I leave for the Capitol.  
  
          Suddenly, it’s too much. I stand up, surprising everyone, and swallow hard. “I’ll be right back,” I promise. “I want to get out of this dress.”  
  
          I can’t remember the last time I cried. I’m usually pretty proud of that fact, but I’m coming dangerously close tonight, so I don’t think I can manage any words when Prim informs me that she doesn't hate me. I grab her, instead, and hold onto her tightly. She’s taller than me, and though I’m sure I’ve noticed that before, on some level, I’m surprised when my face presses into her shoulder. “He could be worse,” she murmurs.  
  
          I nod. She’s always been a bit more optimistic than I am, and I’m trying to reserve judgement, but I can agree with her on that. “Yes,” I say. “He’s been very polite.”  
  
          “He’s nervous,” she says again, but I shake my head, stepping away so that I can find some sleeping clothes to change into.  
  
          “He’s got nothing to be nervous about,” I counter, and Prim rolls her eyes.  
  
          “Maybe not as much as _you_ do,” she says. “But he is. It’s obvious.”  
  
          She goes back out at my request to offer Peeta glass of water, and I change, folding the dress and putting it in my bag. My hair looks nice enough, so I leave it as it is.  
  
           
          At my insistence, we play Hearts next.  
  
          “My brother and I always used to play this one,” he says.  
  
          “You have a brother?” I’m not sure why it’s a surprise, other than the fact that it makes it clear how little I know about him.  
  
          “Your turn, honey,” my mother says, and I play my card.  
  
          “I have two,” he says with a smile. “But Dylan never wanted to play with us.”  
  
          “Are you the oldest?” I ask, trying to guess.  
  
          He shakes his head. “The youngest. There’s . . . I want to say five or six years, yeah, that sounds right, between me and Rye. Rye is the closest to my age. But there’s not much of an age difference between him and Dylan. A year and a half, tops. They even got rhyming names. Dyl _an,_ Ry _an . . ._ Peeta.”  
  
          I smile. I don’t mean to, but the way he says it is funnier than it should be. “I’m sorry,” I say.  
  
          He shakes his head. “No. It’s funny. At least _,_ I think it’s funny.”  
  
          I can tell by the way he winces that he’s picked up something he doesn’t want, but I get a harmless spade when he has to pass to me. I half want to accuse him of going easy on me, but I decide against it. Maybe that isn’t the best thing to discourage, considering.  
  
          He’s remarkably ambitious. I notice what he’s doing as soon as he puts down a seven and picks up the stack of cards with Prim’s four of hearts, but I don’t call him on it. I have no choice but to put down my six of hearts in the next round, and when our eyes meet, if just for a second, it’s clear that he knows that I know what he’s doing. And then, to my surprise, he actually _winks_ at me.  
  
          I look away, watching my mother to see if she knows what’s happening, both with the cards and his wink. She’s focused on her hand, though. “Are you close? You and your brothers?” I ask.  
  
          “Ah, not really,” he admits, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he picks up another hand. I look over at Prim, but she seems completely oblivious to the fact that he’s picked up every single one of the hearts that she’s put down. Again, the look he gives me makes it clear that he’s hoping I won’t say anything. “Not like I'd like to be,” he says. “But they're all settled down with kids and desk jobs.”

 

          I lay down my last heart and catch the smile on his face as he picks it up.  
  
          “They’re really excited to meet you,” he says softly. “Rye and his wife especially. I’m trying to stave them off, but they’re trying to make plans for a dinner party.” He rolls his eyes, but it’s not hard to guess that he’s somewhat pleased about the idea, considering he just said he’d like to be closer with them. “But we don’t have to go, if that’s not something you’re going to feel up to. I told them that we’ll play it by ear.”  
  
          I nod, grateful that he hasn’t signed me up for a party but knowing that I’ll end up having to go, anyway. “Thank you,” I say. “It sounds like fun, though.”  
  
          It’s a lie. The way he looks at me almost makes it seem like he knows that. He manages to collect all of the hearts _and_ the Queen of Spades, and when he sets the cards down on the table, he looks as pleased as he could be. “I’ve never managed to do that before,” he admits. “I always used to try.”  
  
          I shake my head, watching as Prim writes down the current scores. Peeta’s stunt cost me twenty six points, and when he sees that, he speaks up. “Katniss helped,” he says cheerfully. “Can’t I spare her?”  
  
          “You don’t have to do that,” I say, my cheeks heating up at the attention. Prim keeps looking between us, as if I’ve proved her point about him being nervous or something.  
  
          “Maybe we can play teams, or something?” he asks, and my eyebrows raise.  
  
          “You don’t want to do that, you’re winning,” I remind him. “And we have to play to a hundred first, anyway.”  
  
          It turns out the first hand was just luck. After that, Peeta proves to be an awful player, trying to gather all of the hearts again and again. It gets to the point where Prim starts to hoard one or two hearts, taking a hit just so that he’s left with the brunt of the additional points. He takes the loss cheerfully, though, finally changing his strategy.  
  
          When it’s my turn to pass to him, I stall. I could give him bad cards, but I don’t know if he’ll be a sore loser if it’s my fault he can’t win. As if sensing my dilemma, he grins at me.  
  
          “You don’t have to go easy on me,” he says, but I still I keep the three cards I want the least. My mother finally announces that she needs to go to sleep, and when Prim follows suit, Peeta asks to use the restroom. I show him the way and busy myself with setting the couch up for him, I’m trying to figure out the best way to lay the blanket when he comes back out, clad in a pair of plaid pajama pants and plain black shirt. I’m most surprised by the thin metal frames of the glasses that he’s wearing.  
  
          “Thank you,” he says, and I’m surprised by his sincerity. He sits down on the edge of the couch furthest from where I am, “Am I keeping you up?” he asks. “You should get some sleep.”  
  
          I shake my head. I won’t be able to sleep. I don’t tell him that, though. “You’re not,” I say instead. “Do you need anything?”  
  
          “Nothing I can think of,” he says. “Hey, thank you -- for today, I mean.”  
  
          “What?” I ask.  
  
          “It was a good day. It was _such_ a good day,” he says softly, and I remember that he said that earlier, too. “The way you guys have opened up your home . . . I just really appreciate it.”  
  
          “Oh,” I say. “You’re welcome.” It’s not like we had much of a choice, but that’s irrelevant, I guess. “Goodnight, I guess.”  
  
          “Goodnight,” he returns with a smile.  
  
  
  
          I can’t sleep. I think it’s because I know he’s out there. I attempt to step out to check on him, but then I see him. He’s awake, sitting against the back of the couch, face illuminated with some light that looks both blue and white at the same time. It step a little closer, wanting to make sure everything is alright, and trip on his bag.  
  
          He turns to face me, looking more than a little concerned. “Katniss?” he whispers. “Are you okay?”  
  
          “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m okay. Sorry.”  
  
          “No, no, don’t worry,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep?”  
  
          “Not even a little bit,” I confirm.  
  
          “Me neither,” he says. “Not because your couch isn’t comfortable, or anything. It’s just -- I feel like a kid on Christmas.”  
  
          I’m not sure I understand what he’s getting at.  
  
          “Do you want to sit down?” he asks, and I do, making sure that there’s a cushion between us. There’s something leaned up against the side of the couch, and he reaches for it with a sheepish smile. “I’ll get this out of your way.”  
  
          I have to fight my scowl. “I don’t make a habit of tripping,” I say.  
  
          “Oh! no, that’s not exactly what I meant,” he says. “It’s -- not something I should leave lying around.”  
  
          “What?” I ask, squinting to try to make it out in the darkness. “What is it?” I can’t imagine it fitting in his little suitcase.  
  
          “It’s, ah,” he sort of laughs. “It’s a leg. _My_ leg, to be more specific. Or a replacement for mine, depending on how technical you want to get.”    
  
          I want so badly to know what he means. To get a better look at it, or touch it, or call Prim in here, because none of the miners on our table could get a fancy replacement like this for a limb they lost. “He’s hardly the first man I’ve ever seen missing what seems to be the lower part of his leg, so it’s surprising how sheepish he seems.  
  
          “I planned to have it back on by the time you woke up. Usually, I’d just leave it on, being in a new place. But . . . I slept in it last night, and . . .”  
  
          “Does it hurt?” I ask.  
  
          “Sleeping in it?” he asks. “It’s not the best feeling,” he says with a little laugh. “It’s not bad unless I wear it for too long. It’s kind of . . . it chafes? Does that make sense?” he asks.  
  
          “Yes. And I made you do all that walking,” I say.  
  
          “You didn’t make me do a thing,” he says, his voice gentle.  
  
          “But if I had known . . .”  
  
          “You didn’t,” he says.  
  
          “If it _chafes,_ you can’t want to walk on it. Especially not when I’m dragging you all over the district. You should have told me.”  
         

          “I swear I’m okay,” he says.  
  
          “My mother is a healer,” I say. “And Prim, too. I’m sure there’s something, if it hurts.”  
  
          He laughs and I try to keep myself from glaring.  
          “What?”  
  
          “I just . . . kind of can’t believe you’re _real_.”  
  
          I can’t help myself but to laugh. “Real? What else would I be?” I ask before I realize I maybe shouldn’t tease him.  
  
          Thankfully, he laughs, too. “I’m not sure. You just . . . you’ve been a picture for so long, if that makes any sense. A beautiful picture. One that I’ve carried around in my wallet for the past --” he cuts himself off with a laugh. “I promise that was less creepy before I said it out loud. But . . . I thought that -- I was prepared for this to freak you out.”  
  
          I frown. Is that what the girls in the Capitol are like? No wonder he resorted to ordering a wife. “Why?” I ask.  
  
          “I don’t -- ah,” he sort of laughs. “Probably because I was being an idiot.  
  
          “Aren’t you tired?” I ask.  
  
          He shakes his head. “Not even a little,” he says, echoing my words from earlier. “It’s a lot later for you than for me, though. I hope you’re not staying up for my sake.”  
  
          I nod even though I’m not sure what he’s saying about it being earlier for him. “Did you really . . .? You carried my picture around?” I ask.  
  
          “I showed everyone who would look,” he says with a smile. “Even everyone who didn’t care.”  
  
          I laugh before I realize he’s being serious. He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to decide something, and then he leans forward, grabbing something out of his bag.  
  
          “Here,” he says. “I have something for you,” he says. “It’s -- um,” he gives me another one of those shy little laughs. “Here,” he says, holding out a little black box. “It’s for you, if you’ll wear it.”

  
          I gape at him. The ring he’s offering could keep my family in bread for weeks, at _least_. It’s gold -- or looks to be, at least -- and from where it rests in the box, I can see little chips of green in it. Some stone that I can’t immediately place. “Oh,” I breathe.  
  
          “What do you think?” he asks. “It’s your birthstone,” he says, looking so shy. “I didn’t know what you would like, and I thought this way . . . I know it’s a little backwards, giving you a wedding ring before the engagement ring. But we could always get you diamond later.”  
  
          I shake my head at the idea of him wanting to add anything to this. “It’s beautiful,” I say. It isn’t even a lie. The ring _is_ beautiful, but I can’t fathom why he’s giving it to me. This is the sort of token a wealthy man would give his lover, and wealthy as Peeta may be, we’ve only just met. He has no reason to want to give me nice things, let alone something so clearly expensive.  
  
          “You don’t have to wear it,” he says. “I can keep it safe for you, if . . . “ he trails off, sort of laughing. “I know this contradicts everything I said before, about moving too quickly. It’s just . . . I thought . . .”  
  
          All I can manage is to nod. It would be rude, surely, to turn this down, even temporarily.  
  
          “Is that a yes you want me to keep it safe?” he asks. “Or yes you want to wear it?”  
  
          “I . . . I’ll wear it,” I say, my voice unsteady. I’m assured that I’ve made the right decision when relief washes over his features.  
  
          “May I --?” he asks, nodding down at the open box in his hand.  
  
          I nod my assent, and he inches across the couch, holding a hand out for me to put mine in. I’m just hesitant enough to be grateful he’s left this up to me. His hand is warm and soft and large where mine is small and cold and calloused. The hand that supports mine gives me a gentle squeeze that I think might be meant to reassure me, and then he slides the ring onto my finger. It’s a little bit loose, but he assures me that we can get it tightened in the Capitol, whatever that means.  
  
          “Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful.” I wish I had something I could give him. I didn’t realize we would be exchanging presents.  
  
          I’m still worrying about how to settle the score later, once we’ve said goodnight again and I’ve crawled into bed beside Prim. As I twist the ring around my finger, I wonder what my life with Peeta Mellark will be like, and what the little pang in my stomach is as I realize how different things will be in the morning.


	2. Departure

The water in the long-stemmed goblet sways with the motion of the train. The speed hasn’t bothered me since the initial departure, but there’s something about seeing it reflected in the glass that makes my stomach lurch. 

I force my eyes away, feeling something tightening at the base of my throat. My eyes close as I focus on taking steady breaths through my nose, trying to force the knot away. I am determined to keep down the light soup that we had for our first course. It was much better than anything that Greasy Sae had served, and since I managed to keep that down, I’m determined to hang onto the cool, strawberry and mint in cream concoction.

Once I feel a little steadier, I open my eyes to find Peeta’s trained on me. He turns his head away, and I catch sight of the redness that begins to bloom at the tip of his ear. How long has he been watching me to be this embarrassed at being caught? I don’t think that I want to know the answer, so I follow his gaze. 

It takes a moment for me to figure out what it is that he’s looking at. The dining car is exquisitely decorated, with no shortage of things to look at. Ornate lights hang over each of the tables that line the walls of the compartment, like the one where Peeta and I are sitting. The metalwork on the low-hanging light alone could keep me distracted through the entire meal, but the light fixture above the long table in front of the room is even more mesmerizing. 

Clusters of Capitolites sit beneath the shining lights with what look to be diamonds hanging down from the ceiling itself, talking and laughing. Earlier, when Peeta asked what I’d like to drink, I could barely hear him over the screeching laughter coming from the group, and they’ve only gotten louder as the night has gone on. 

Another glance at my husband confirms that he’s watching the loud group. I can’t quite make out his expression. The wrinkles that form along his browline as the studies the capitolites could mean anything. Does he wish that we were sitting with them? Or, like me, is he feeling himself become more and more irritated with every round of laughter that comes from the loud group? Either way, I can’t blame him for staring. They’re hard enough to look away from, with their ridiculous clothes, but the thing that really grabs your attention is the way they keep shouting. 

They must know that they’re being stared at, but it hardly seems to bother them. Right now, a woman, with hair like fire, all oranges and reds, carefully sculpted and stretching up several inches from her head, is in the middle of lecturing one of the servers. I didn’t see what happened, but she accuses him of having awful manners and threatens to speak to his manager. Judging by the fear on the boy’s face as he steps back, his hands raised in a conciliatory gesture, nothing good waits for him if she means what she’s saying. 

“She’s drunk,” says Peeta. 

The woman goes on, telling the boy what a nightmare this trip has been and how whatever it is that he’s done is the last thing that she needed. Only, now that Peeta has mentioned it, I can hear the slur to her words. I had chalked it up to her accent, before. Thought that they all ran their sentences together. But the woman is getting sloppy, and when her fist hits the table, a glass spills over, blue liquid seeping into the fine white table cloth. 

And then, strangest thing, she howls with laughter. The boy lunges for the glass, but he’s too slow, and the glass shatters against the floor. The conversation around them doesn’t cease, and neither does the woman’s laughter. It’s a sharp, grating sound, like a goat. 

“She won’t be speaking to anyone’s manager in that state,” Peeta assures me, and I wonder how he knew that I was worried for the boy’s sake. 

The answer is obvious. He was watching me. Again. 

I don’t like the feeling of Peeta being able to read me so well. 

Once the boy has finished gathering up the shards of glass, he disappears into the swinging doors I’ve determined lead to the kitchen, and I feel even sorrier for him when he has to come by and take their drink orders again. 

“He isn’t from the Capitol,” I say. If I had to guess, I’d say that he’s from an outlying district. Not Twelve, but somewhere close. Eleven? Nine? 

“None of them are,” says Peeta. 

He isn’t wrong. A glance around the room confirms that the attendants on the train are from all over panem, and none of them carry themselves the way the capitolites do.

“I don’t envy their jobs,” he says. 

I wonder if I could have worked on a train. At least, that way, I could see my sister when the trains stopped in Twelve. Only, if I had been able to find another way to feed my family by moving to the Capitol, I’d surely be treated the same way as the attendants are.

The only protection I have from these capitolites is that I’m married to one of them. 

One of them. I almost feel guilty for lumping Peeta in the same category as the others. He hasn’t acted anything like them. He’s quiet enough -- his accent isn’t exaggerated like others and he doesn’t feel the need to shout everything he says. And the way he’s treated the servers that have come to our table has been completely different from what we just watched. In fact, when the boy who was just chastised comes to ask if we have everything we need, Peeta is particularly kind to him. 

“You got stuck with the big group tonight, didn’t you, Marvel?” he asks, reading the name off of the nametag, and the boy sort of laughs. 

“We try to trade off, but . . . yeah.” 

“You want us to pretend to be difficult?” Peeta offers, eyes shining with what must be mischief. “Might buy you a little time if I insist you make sure that our tea was fresh-brewed.” 

This earns him a real laugh. 

“I’m all right, sir. Thank you.” 

Once we’re along, Peeta notices that I’m watching him. 

“I work in the food industry,” he says. “I feel his pain. They’re horrible. I would offer to come back later, but they’ll probably just get more wild.” He sounds apologetic, which is strange. 

 

“I’m all right here,” I assure him, shifting in my seat. The fine fabric of the long white tablecloth brushes against my bare legs, and I regret that I tore my stockings while we picked dandelions yesterday and couldn’t wear them for the journey. It shouldn’t matter, really, whether or not I impress Peeta with my outfit. We’re married no matter what he thinks of me. But after the state he saw me in this morning, I’m sure that I could use the extra points that would come with a proper outfit. 

He’s studying me, trying to figure me out, I think, and I don’t like it one bit. “What about in general?” he asks carefully, this time, I’m the one who has to look away. “Are you all right, Katniss?” 

No. I don’t think all right is the best way to describe how I’m doing tonight. And he must know that. I don’t think he would ask if he thought I was enjoying the train ride. I realize how ungrateful I must look, sitting here surrounded by luxury and sulking, and force myself to look up and give him a smile that I hope looks like it could at least be partially genuine. 

“I’m fine,” I say. 

It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe me, and it’s just as well. I know that, with the way I’ve been acting today, I can’t be very convincing. I’ve barely managed to speak to him –other than to answer direct questions and turn the conversation around on him – since he woke, absolutely mystified to see me standing there, covered in mud. 

He asked where I was, and rather than being honest, I dodged the question. Told him I had some errands to run. He had looked unconvinced at best and hurt at worst -- the same expression he wears now. 

“Really,” I assure him. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” he says, his voice is soft rather than angry, like I would be if I suspected someone was being untruthful. “If you’re sad about leaving Twelve . . . You can tell me.” 

I take a sip of my water, just so I have another moment before I have to respond. “I’m fine,” I lie again. “Thank you.” 

Tea waits for me, a dainty cup on a saucer that matches the fine china plates and bowls at each table setting, but I didn’t ask for it. Peeta did. He remembered how I drank my tea yesterday and asked the server first, and then glanced at me for confirmation. It was a kind gesture -- one I’m nearly certain was meant to set me at ease -- but the tea came back with so much milk that it was nearly white, and I haven’t been able to convince myself to take a sip of it yet. 

“Then tell me this. Do I have something to apologize for?” he finally asks. 

I’m surprised that he’s pressing the matter. I suppose that I thought he would leave me be a while longer. But of course he’s curious. He must have been rehearsing this conversation in his mind all day long. I have, too, but I haven’t managed to figure out how to start it. 

The server comes by again, leaving a basket of bread on the table. There are several types of bread waiting, but when Peeta nudges the basket towards me, I take a dark, dense roll. I’ll try the other kinds, probably, but after the rich breakfast he made this morning, I think something more familiar will feel better in my stomach. 

Only, I don’t eat it. At least, not at first. Peeta is silent while I butter it and revel in the warm puff of air that comes when I tear it open. I have never had bread so fresh before. But it must be obvious that I won’t manage to eat it, because he clears his throat. 

“Katniss, you’re not doing me any favors, pretending like I haven’t upset you,” he insists. “I think -- well, it’s pretty obvious that it’s something. And if it’s me . . . I’d like to know. I promise I can handle it.” 

There’s something like a smile at those last words. As if he really thinks I’ve been silent because I’m protecting him. I wet my lips and open my mouth to speak, but no words come. I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell him. Not the truth, certainly. It would upset him -- and who could blame him for being upset? 

“No. Of course not,” I say, running the pads of my finger along the linen of the tablecloth. It’s such a waste, these fine fabrics being used on tables. I'm sure that the one the woman spilled her drink on will be just be thrown away. 

“I want you to tell me, just, in the future . . .” he continues. “Was it too much, giving you the ring?” 

“No!” I say, following his gaze to look at the ring on my finger. I remember how upset Gale was the sight of it. The way that he glared at it. The resentment that dripped from his words when he called it a nice ring. “Not at all. It’s lovely.” 

“That doesn’t mean that you have to wear it,” he says carefully, and I realize what he isn’t saying. 

“Do you want it back? I can --” 

“No!” he interrupts, voice almost frantic. “Katniss. If you want to wear the ring, I want you to wear the ring. It’s just . . . I want to make it better. That’s all.” 

I don’t know what it is that makes the words spill out. Maybe it’s because I believe him, that he wants to know what he’s done. Only, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Not other than ordering me. But I can’t blame him for that, exactly. 

“I left,” I say. “This morning, while you were sleeping.” 

He frowns, the crease between his eyebrows returning, only deeper this time. “I gathered,” he says. 

I think it may be a joke, but it falls silent between the two of us. Of course he knew that I was gone after the way I opened the door, covered in mud, my face red with a combination of tears and anger. 

“But I wasn’t gone very long,” I assure him. “I -- I usually see my . . . my friend, on Sunday mornings. He was waiting for me. He didn’t know I was leaving and -- I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Peeta is still watching me carefully, his face betraying nothing resembling anger or even hurt, but he’s starting to fidget. His thumb twists a ring around his finger that I didn’t notice before -- a plain gold band that nearly matches mine, almost understated in its simplicity. 

I wonder if he thinks that I’m lying, about how all I just wanted to say goodbye. It’s true, though. I wanted to say goodbye. Gale was the one who wanted something else. 

He was waiting for me, sitting in our spot in the woods, sheltered from the rain. I joined him under the branches of the tree. Looking back on it, I know that the smile he gave me should have been evidence enough that something was wrong. Only, I was so distracted by the fact that I wouldn’t see my best friend or my woods again that I was barely paying attention. 

“Didn’t know if you were coming today,” he had told me, his voice bordering on hopeful. 

“It’s Sunday. Of course I came,” I said, and he sort of laughed, reaching over and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. It was a strange gesture. I would have chalked it up to the fact that my hair was falling out of the pins from yesterday. Only, he’s seen me with my hair out of place all the time, and he had never tried fixing it before. Then his other hand came up to my cheek, and before I could turn away, his lips were on mine. 

It didn’t last long. I shoved at his chest with shaking hands and scrambled away, rising to my feet. 

“Gale!” I hissed. “What was that?!” 

“I had to do that,” he said. 

“I’m married, Gale,” I said, raising hand to my lips. 

There was more I wanted to say. About how he shouldn’t have kissed me. How I came to say goodbye, nothing else. Only, I didn’t get the chance. 

“There’s still time.” 

“For what?” I asked, and something clouded in his expression. 

“We can leave,” he said. “Take off. Live in the woods.” 

My eyes had widened. “Are you crazy?” I hissed, as if we would be overheard all the way out here. “I can’t leave. Do you know what they’ll do to Prim if I disappear?” 

“We’ll come back for her,” he insisted. “How long do you think he’ll last out here, anyway? He’ll catch the next train out, rat you out to the Capitol once he's there -- but we’ll be long gone by then!” 

“Gale. I’m not leaving. I can’t.” 

 

Peeta is still watching me. As he continues to mess with his ring, I catch sight of a scar in the shape of a half circle, starting near the base of his thumb and disappearing onto the bottom of his hand. Does the outline continue onto his palm? 

“And . . . this friend of yours . . .?” he begins, and then trails off. “I take it the visit didn’t go well?” 

“I don’t -- I don’t think he’s my friend anymore,” I say. 

It had all gone downhill from there. Gale told me, not for the first time, that we could have figured something else out. That I didn’t have to do this. As I protested, he got angrier and angrier with me until finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. 

“How could you do this to me?” Gale asked. 

“To you?” I snapped. “This has nothing to do with you!” 

“Who does it have to do with, then?” he asked. “Who were you thinking about? Prim? How you’re just gonna leave her here --” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, so loudly that I was sure all of the surrounding game was scared away. 

“What don’t I understand?” he asked. “How could I know anything about mothers and children who always need more than you have to give? What could I have to say about putting in extra hours at the mines?” Even as his voice rose, Gale’s tone remained even. Angry, sure, but he was almost acting like he was disappointed in me. It’s not something I knew how to deal with, exactly. “I didn’t fucking sell myself, though, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about after all.” 

“I did this -- ALL OF THIS -- for her,” I shouted. It was true. It was because I couldn’t stand to see my sister go without that I added my name to the registry. It was because of Prim that I would be carted off to the Capitol. “Don’t tell me I didn’t think of my sister. I only thought of her. What is wrong with you?” 

That was when my voice broke. I didn’t manage to say anything else. I ran for the fence. It was just as well that Gale didn’t call after me. I had nothing left to say to him. Not after that. 

 

Peeta clears his throat, breaking my concentration. He shifts in his seat a little, clearly uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

I want to believe him, but how could I, though? Why should he feel bad that another man got into a fight with me? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. 

I don’t, but I don’t know if I can say as much. “He just . . . wasn’t very happy with me,” I say instead. And then, because I don’t like the way that makes me sound, I add, “I wasn’t very happy with him either. I’m sorry I worried you.” 

He shakes his head, as if that can’t possibly matter. “No. I mean, yes, it was a little -- I was afraid that something was wrong. You came in covered in mud. I mean, I think there was a stick in your hair. But that’s on me,” he jokes, a little nervous laugh interrupting his sentence. “Seriously. Don’t worry.” 

I don’t know how to respond. If I’m not supposed to be sorry for making him think something had gone wrong, what does he want me to apologize for? I give him a little nod. 

“Nothing was wrong,” I say. “At least, not really. I should have told you where I was but -- Gale and I just had an argument, is all.” 

“Right,” says Peeta. “He’s upset you’re leaving?” 

 

I nod, even though I’m sure he knows the answer. I don't like it, being given his full attention. If we had this conversation at all, I didn’t want it to happen while he was watching me. 

“Yes,” I say. That’s all I can manage. Anything else would give too much away. What would Peeta say if he knew what the true nature of Gale’s unhappiness with my decision was? 

Peeta studies me for a long moment, and I shift under his gaze. “I'll bet he was,” Peeta says, and I'm grateful when the server comes and I can place my order for lamb stew, because it keeps me from having to respond. 

“What does that mean?” I finally ask. “That you bet he was?” 

“Nothing,” he says, giving me a hint of a smile that I think must be meant to reassure me. It doesn’t, though. He must be able to tell, because he adds, “It’s just . . . If the two of you were . . .” he pauses, as if for me to finish his sentence, but I’m not sure where he’s going with it, and I don’t want to make things worse by offering up any information about the kiss. “Involved,” he finishes at last. “Then. . . well, of course he’s upset I’m taking you away.” 

“Involved?” I repeat. “No. He’s . . . no. Peeta.” 

He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “Katniss, you felt like you had to lie to me about going to see him--” 

“Because I thought you would be angry!” I interrupt, hating how desperate I sound. “That’s all. Really.” 

The laugh he gives sounds disbelieving, but not cruel. I watch him, my entire body tense as he drags a hand across his face. 

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better,” he finally informs me, his lips twisting up into a smile that seems almost sad. 

A laugh bubbles out of my chest, pure relief, but it’s short-lived. “I should have told you,” I say. “This morning. When you asked. I just . . . I wanted to be back before you woke up. I thought -- well. I didn’t think you’d see me.” 

I had cried, after that. Had been so angry with Gale for kissing me, and so upset with myself for snapping nothing when Peeta asked what was wrong. So afraid of what the raised eyebrows and “all right then,” that I earned in return would mean, as far as my future with Peeta went. No wonder Peeta has realized that something is wrong. I spent so much of the morning hidden in the bath that my mother ran at the sight of me, covered in mud, letting my face sink under the water. 

“I gathered that, too,” he says. “Listen -- I don’t want you to lie to me in general. But I really don’t want you to feel like you have to,” he says. “I’m not angry. Honest. I’m sorry that you felt like I was, or I would be. I should have brought this up after breakfast. I hate that you spent all day thinking I was mad at you.” 

I have about ten reasons why he should be angry, but I’m not about to tell him any of them. “Thank you,” I say. “I -- I’m sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “Stop,” he chides, though his voice is so gentle that I think he must be making a special effort so that I don’t think he’s mad. “No more of that. All right?” 

I turn my focus back to the roll in my hands. There’s another apology on my lips, but I don’t let it pass. “All right,” I repeat. “Thank you. For not being mad.” 

This time, his laugh sounds almost tortured. “Katniss,” he all but whines, his head thrown back in mock-pain. “That is the exact same thing. Okay. How about this: let’s talk about something else. Anything else at all. You can pick. Just -- no apologies, all right?” he asks, blue eyes big and earnest when I glance up at him. 

I nod, only, I don’t have anything I really want to talk with him about. “Um,” I begin, nodding down at the roll in my head. “It looks like good bread.” 

“Good choice. I’ll tell you a secret -- I could talk about bread for hours,” he says, and then, at my confused look, he continues, “I’m a baker. It’s what I do for a living. You may not actually want to get me started.” 

He’s a baker. I feel like this is something I should have already known. I nod anyway. 

“What’s your favorite kind of bread?” he asks, and when I don’t respond, the smile he offers could only be described as encouraging. “Come on, Katniss,” he says lightly. “I’ve got to to know these things!” 

The last part is a joke, I think, but that doesn’t mean that I know how to tell him that the answer to what sort of bread I like best is directly dependant on what sort of bread is in my hands at that moment. He won’t understand that, though. When I say, “I’ll eat anything,” he sort of laughs. Good. I meant it lightly -- sort of. 

“No, like, your favorite,” he presses, and I realize that he doesn’t know what I mean. How could he? “Not just what you’ll eat. I mean -- do you prefer white bread? Or dark bread, or rolls, or breadsticks, or . . .” he trails off, as if finally understanding that I don’t have an answer for him. “Don’t worry,” he says, undeterred. “I’ll figure it out.” 

My grip on the bread tightens, and I have to actively try not to glare down at it. 

“I don’t have a favorite,” I say. 

Of course he doesn’t believe me. If I lied about where I was this morning -- by omission, I add in a miserable attempt to make myself feel better -- why should he believe me about something silly like my bread preferences?

Only, then he softens, and I realize that he was playing. “I know,” he assures me. “I just mean that we’re going to fix that. Tell you what – I’m going to make you so much bread, Katniss. You’ll get sick of it. And then whichever kind you can still stomach when we’re finished, we’ll call that one your favorite,” he says. “How does that sound?”

Oh. Well, it certainly isn’t the worst alternative for my days in the Capitol. Only, I don’t know how to tell him that. Surely I shouldn’t mention the deal I had with the baker at home, where I took his old bread in exchange for a couple of squirrels. Something tells me that Peeta Mellark would be horrified by that – at either the idea of eating squirrels or of eating bread that’s sat out for the better part of a week.

I’m relieved that he doesn’t chatter all the way through the meal. In fact, other than answering his question about whether or not it’s any good and agreeing to try a bite of his meal, I get to eat uninterrupted for a while. 

“Dark bread,” I say after a moment of silence that stretches on too long. “That’s -- I usually like darker breads a little bit better. I guess. If I have to pick a favorite.” 

“You don’t have to pick a favorite,” he assures me. “Honestly, I’m just relieved you like bread at all. Wouldn’t it be awful, marrying a baker and not liking bread?” 

Marrying a baker. That is what I did, isn’t it? But it’s strange to hear him put it like that, so casually. Married. I’m married to this man, and he didn’t even know if I liked bread. I open my mouth a couple of times, trying to come up with a decent response, but all I manage is a noncommittal hum. What else does he want me to say? That he’s right and it would be awful? That I’m not convinced that it won’t be awful anyway? 

When he’s silent, I come up with something slightly better. “Of course I like bread,” I say, finally taking a bite of my roll. “I can’t imagine not liking bread,” I muse. 

 

This makes him happy. He carries the conversation easily enough, avoiding anything of substance. He probably wasn’t lying about how long he could talk about bread, either, considering the way that he spreads out all of the breads in the basket, explaining how each one is meant to represent a different district. 

“These trains go all over the country,” he says. “I saw a special about it once, the food they serve. They do this, like, tour of Panem -- which I almost booked us for, but I figured it was probably best to see if that would be something you would like,” he jokes. “Anyway, as they go through each district, they have this special menu. There’s Capitol stuff, too, but also these fancy versions of, like, groosling. It was a reality TV thing. One of the challenges was to make the new menu.” 

Peeta pauses, and I think it may be to catch his breath. He takes a sip of his tea, and then sort of laughs at a joke he hasn’t told yet.

“So, I feel like I should pretend that I only watched it ‘cause my friend Finnick was a contestant. He won, actually. But -- I just . . . I really love awful TV,” he admits, hanging his head low and peering up at me through long, blond eyelashes. 

He looks so contrite that I actually smile. 

“Anyway. I remember about the bread. It was this whole thing. Finnick wasn’t the one to come up with it. Between you and me, he’s not that smart, but the woman who did was disqualified for sneaking in cookbooks, so he lost the challenge but eventually he won the whole show. He’s got this whole thing, now. A show, I mean. I can’t make myself watch it very often, though. It’s too weird. He’s got this whole other voice that he does. It’s all low. Like, add two cups of -- I can’t do it,” he says, and he’s really laughing now. 

I can barely keep up with him, he’s saying so much so fast. “Wow,” I manage. 

“He’s actually really nice. I mentioned him yesterday, actually. He’s the one from Four. Married a friend of mine. Of course, this was before he was turned into a B-list celebrity and a, ah. What’s the next level down from a household name?” he jokes, and then reddens, his hand tugging at his hair. “You must be so bored. I’m sorry.” 

I shake my head. “No. Not bored,” I say. It’s good that he’s talking. I think I may make a game of it, seeing how much I can get him to say. Now isn’t the time for that, though. “I just -- haven’t watched much television.” 

His eyes close tightly, his nose wrinkling. “Oh. Of course. I’m -- sorry.” 

“I . . . I think we’ve hit the limit on apologies for the night,” I say, though my voice is weaker than his was when he made the same joke. “Maybe we can watch the show together sometime?” I ask. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says with a smile. “I’d love to. I’m pretty sure Finnick and Annie have the boxed set of that season, so, we’ll see if we can borrow it from them.” 

I can’t tell whether or not he’s joking. I would think he was serious if not for the little wink he gives me. “All right,” I say. “Thank you. It . . . sounds like fun.” 

I hate the way my voice falters, but Peeta laughs. 

“I already spoiled it for you,” he says. “Maybe we can start with something else. Home renovation, or . . . I don’t know. But I’ll find something,” he assures me.

 

I don’t realize how little I want to be in the room until Peeta slides the keycard into the door. I try to convince myself to be calm, even with the way that my heart has settled into my throat. Once that door closes behind us, we will be truly alone for the first time, and there’s no telling what he’ll do. 

The room itself isn’t much bigger than the one I share with my mother and sister, but the bed that takes up the majority of the space is huge. I’m not sure what it is about the crisp white bedding that bothers me so much, but there’s something about the pillows, propped up against the wall and carefully fluffed, that unsettles me. 

Maybe it’s because I know what’s about to happen. I may have been caught off guard this morning with Gale, but I refuse to let that happen again. It may not be the same -- I don’t think I’ll be able to get away with shoving Peeta off of me, even if my mouth has dried the same way now that it did after Gale pressed his lips against mine. 

“Well, ah,” Peeta begins, and then clears his throat. “I think it’s safe to say that this room doesn’t have two beds.” 

He was trying to joke, obviously, but I can’t come up with a laugh to give him. He crosses to sit on the bed, and I watch him carefully as he scrubs a hand at the back of his neck, as if that will wipe away the flush that’s rising. He’s nervous, but that doesn’t mean anything. This is, in effect, our wedding night, and I know what he must expect. But I’m certainly not going to be the first to mention it. 

“Do you wanna sit down?” he asks. 

No. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less at this moment than join him on the bed, but my legs move mechanically, bringing me to sit on the edge of the bed. I’m grateful for the size when I realize that I’m far enough away that he won’t be able to reach out and touch me. At least, not without me noticing what he’s doing, he won’t. 

“I’m not . . . I don’t know exactly what happened,” he says. “I tried to ask for a room with two beds, so either I messed it up somehow or . . .” 

I remember the way that the other capitolite had screamed at the attendant during the meal. Peeta, at least, doesn’t seem outraged. Of course, the oversight works in his favor. Why would he want a room with two beds when the plan was to make me share one with him, anyway? 

I can’t quite take a full breath. Every time I begin, it hitches in the middle and I have to start over. I’m so occupied with my breathing that I miss half of what he’s saying. 

“Either way, something went wrong,” he says. “I’ll ask if they have another room. I mean, this place is huge, so . . . clearly there’s going to be somewhere. Another room, or something.” 

I stare at him while he rambles. Peeta may as well be speaking gibberish, he’s making such little sense. 

“Another room?” I echo. “For what?” 

The laugh he gives me isn’t because he thinks what I’ve said is funny. He’s just nervous.

“For me to sleep in,” he says. 

“No!” I say. “Let me just -- I’ll take the floor. All I need is a pillow, and I’ll be fine.” 

“Katniss, no,” he says, his voice as stern as I’ve heard it, even if he does sound slightly amused. “This is your first night with me. There’s no way I’m letting you spend it on the floor.” 

“I don’t -- you paid for the room. I don’t want to take it,” I say. 

“Technically, I paid for a room with two beds, so you're safe,” he jokes. “No. It’s fine. I slept in a chair on the way out here. My standards are low. Worst comes to worst, I’ll take the floor.” 

“Why?” I ask hesitantly. 

I could understand him wanting to sleep separately last night. We were in my mother’s house. My sister was right there. But now . . . 

“Because I meant what I said yesterday,” he says. “About it being too much, too fast. And because you look . . .” he trails off. I wonder what he was going to say. Hopefully it wasn’t something true. “I’m just going to go see what I can find out, and come back. All right?” 

It’s not like I should argue with him. this is the best possible outcome for the night, I think, save for him deciding to just take me back to Twelve and leave me there. So, once I decide that he isn’t waiting for me to grab his arm and beg him to stay, I agree to stay put. 

 

He comes in a few moments later for his bag. I haven’t changed yet, and I feel like I should be doing something other than just sitting on the bed, but I’m not sure what. 

“I’m gonna leave this with you,” he says. 

I watch as he sets the keycard down on the sidetable with a little click. I have my own -- right beside the one he just laid down -- but it’s good, knowing he won’t barge in while I’m sleeping. Then he produces another key from his pocket and sets it down with a little smile. 

“That one’s to my room. So, if you need me for anything, I’m down the line a bit,” he says, motioning vaguely behind him, “you’ve got to go through the lounge car, and then it’s room eight. Do you want me to show you, just in case?”

I shake my head, not sure what I would possibly need him for, but I thank him anyway. 

“Sleep well, all right?” he asks, lingering by the door and giving me a smile. “If you need me . . . you know where I am. Okay?” 

I nod. The lock in the door clicks when he shuts it behind him, and I settle back against the pillows with a little sigh. The bed is too much -- too soft, too big, too crowded with pillows. I hate the feeling of the silk pillowcase under my cheek, but when I try to shift the pillows around to find one that’s even remotely similar to what I’m used to, nearly all of them end up in the tiny wedge of floor between the floor and the wall. I manage to catch one by the edge, the fabric nearly falling through my fingers, and once I’m sure it’s secure, I bury my face in it. 

I mean to scream, I think. Only, then I imagine some attendant bursting in with a master key or Peeta somehow hearing me, and besides, I can’t quite work it up anyway, so I lay there, face pressed to the pillow, my breaths seeping through the fabric, warm and stifling against my skin, until I can’t take it anymore. And then I do it again. 

I’m not sure how many times I repeat this. Until turning over and facing the shadows that creep through the window isn’t unbearable. Still, it takes ages for me to fall asleep. It’s not that I’m not tired -- after the day I’ve had, I’m exhausted. It’s just that I can’t manage to drift off. The train is flying along the rails, and it seems like every time I close my eyes, I feel the speed for the first time. 

Only, when I wake, the train isn’t moving. An awful thought hits me. Peeta didn’t mention when the train was meant to arrive in the Capitol. Did I miss it? Surely they would have made an announcement. I just can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong, so I snatch up the key cards that he left for me and head down the hall in search of a sign that I haven’t made a huge mistake. 

I’m so tired that I want to head back for the room as soon as I leave it but I don’t want to have to make this trip twice, so I push forward, passing a group of capitolites who snicker at me. I wonder what it is -- my sleeping clothes? I don’t see anything wrong with them. A red plaid shirt that belonged to my father and a pair of long, soft pants that only have a couple of holes. 

I turn, casting a glance at them. They’re staring -- at least Peeta has the decency to look ashamed when I catch him. These people just watch me, brightly tinted eyes trailing me across the room. I can’t duck through the pressurized doors fast enough. 

 

Even though everything inside of me is telling me to go back to my room, I force myself to knock once I reach the room he described. A groan comes from inside, and then something that vaguely resembles my name. 

“It’s me,” I confirm, turning the card over in my hand. 

“Come in,” he says. 

I slip in, not quite closing the door behind me, so the light can be let in and I can see him. I recognize the way that he pushes himself up with elbows -- it’s the same thing he did this morning, when I came bursting into the house. He looks concerned now, too, but maybe not quite as much. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I -- the train isn’t moving,” I say. I feel ridiculous. Surely he didn’t hear an announcement that I missed. He was clearly fast asleep. “I thought . . . I don’t know. Maybe I missed the Capitol or something.” 

“I’d’ve come to get you,” he assures me. “They're probably refueling. Be moving again by the morning. Don’t worry.” 

I nod. “Um . . .” I begin. “Sorry to wake you. I just -- I wanted to be sure.” 

“I don’t mind,” he says, but I feel guilty when his face screws up in a yawn that I can’t help but mirror. 

“You were sleeping,” I say a bit belatedly. Of course he was sleeping. Just because I couldn’t sleep doesn’t mean he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I just -- yeah.” 

“Katniss,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. “If you don’t wanna go back, it’s fine,” he says, and it takes me a moment too long to realize what he he means, but when he lifts the blanket, I realize what he means. He wants me to stay with him. to share the bed.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me accept the offer. Just a few hours ago, the thought of sharing a bed with him was so awful that I agreed to let him pay for a second room. Now, though . . . I don’t know if it’s because I have a feeling they’ll be more willing to tell a capitolite what’s going on than they would me, or if it’s because I’m so tired. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to pass the group again. Or maybe it’s because of the way he asked, his voice quiet and almost hopeful. Somehow, though, I end up shutting the door behind me. 

It doesn’t hit me, fully, what I’m doing, until I can feel his body heat through the sheet. But I know that I can't sneak away from Peeta. Not twice in one day. Especially not when I realize that he’s got himself pushed up against the wall in an attempt to give me space in the bed.

It’s smaller than the one I just left. This whole room is smaller. I feel bad that he has to pay for a room I won’t even sleep in, but Peeta doesn’t seem particularly torn up over it. And besides . . . maybe I’ll be able to sleep better. This bed is a lot more similar to the bed I shared with Prim at home, even if it is still too soft. How different could it be? 

Very different, apparently. Peeta takes up more space than Prim does, and even though he scoots against the wall, it’s impossible to join him without touching him somehow. I try to wedge myself onto the edge, as close as I can without falling off, but my back still ends up pressed to his side. 

 

“Katniss?” he whispers into the darkness, something my sister has done a thousand times, and I feel my heart clench. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m all right,” I return. 

“What’s bothering you?” he asks. “Is it the train? It’ll be moving again in no time.” 

I nod before I realize that he may not be able to see me. “Yeah,” I say. I feel a little bit ridiculous -- like a toddler he’s trying to coddle -- but it’s true. And besides, even if it wasn’t, it was the answer he had wanted to hear. “But I’m all right.” 

“Have you ever been on one before?” he asks. 

Where would I have gone? “No,” I say. “I haven’t.” 

“The noises were what startled me my first time,” he says gently. 

Again, I feel ridiculous. I know that he’s trying to soothe me, but I don’t think I like it very much. 

“We were headed to Three. I hadn’t been on a train before -- everyone else had -- my family did a lot of traveling before I was born. It was only a few hours but I white-knuckled it the whole time,” he says. “But it was just me and my father. Everyone else had to stay behind . . . I mean, it wasn’t exactly a vacation.” 

“Was he off to pick up a bride?” I ask, and I’m trying to tease. It doesn’t exactly work -- at least, I don’t think so. Only, I feel more than hear him huff out a little laugh through his nose. 

“Not exactly,” he says. “I was, ah . . . I was six. It was just after -- we had to go and get me fitted for my first prosthetic.” 

Six. He was so young. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of him in the dark but I can’t. “Oh,” I manage. 

“I’ve just completely ruined the mood, haven’t I?” he asks, and then I can feel his body as it tenses. “Not like that! Oh, god . . . I just mean -- ack,” he says, sort of laughing. “I know what it’s like -- and being on a train doesn’t exactly help things when you’re already . . .” 

“I’m not afraid,” I say, but it isn’t very convincing even to my own ears. “Besides. You were a kid. It’s different.” 

“Yeah, if I pretend that was the only time I’ve ever been nervous on a train,” he says, and I can tell that he’s joking. “Just the other day, when they stopped to refuel, I may have panicked a little. As if I wasn’t already nervous enough -- I thought we had broken down. I was asleep in my seat. Thankfully I was able to ask around until I got an answer. But, yeah, I should have warned you.”

“Nervous?” I repeat. “So you just don't like trains in general then?” 

He laughs. A real one, this time. Loud and full and genuine, and I can feel it through his chest. It's so weird, having this conversation while we're touching, but it's not like there's another option, exactly. If I try sitting up again, he’ll probably get offended. He’s not an idiot. I can’t get away with trying to get away from him over and over again without him noticing. 

“I'm just fine with trains,” he says. “No. I – it's you. I was nervous about meeting you.” 

Oh. 

“Why were you nervous to meet me?” I manage to ask after a moment too long. 

“Oh, let me see . . .” he begins, and he's obviously joking. I feel ridiculous. Like it’s obvious. “Katniss, I was terrified,” he says. 

I have no idea how to respond. He must take it the wrong way, because he starts to ramble. 

“Terrified may not be the best word. But . . . I was nervous. Really, really nervous. You have no idea how many I rehearsed this whole 'hi! Are you Katniss? I'm Peeta, it's so great to meet you!' thing that I didn't even end up saying.” 

“Oh,” I say. 

That’s all that I can manage. I should say something better, I think, but I can’t quite come up with it. I’m glad that he can’t see the little smile that tugs on my lips in the dark, because it feels like exactly the sort of thing I ought to keep to myself. 

“That’s silly,” I finally manage. 

“What?” he asks. “Being scared that I would say the wrong thing and ruin literally everything?” 

The way that he exaggerates those words coaxes a laugh from me -- partially because he’s trying to be funny, but also because it’s so strange that he would even care. 

“But seriously, of course I was nervous.” 

Of course. 

“What if I told you a story?” he asks. 

I turn to look at him again, my eyes finally adjusted to the dark enough for me to make him out at least a little bit. I can’t focus on his face, but I can tell that he’s got his head propped up against the wall, just a little, so that he can study me. 

“I’m okay, Peeta,” I say. 

Really, now that I know when the train will be moving again, I should go find my own room. There’s no reason for me to stay here -- and he must want his bed back. Only . . . 

“My father always used to tell me stories when I was freaked out about something and couldn’t sleep. Like, bedtime stories, or things from when he was a kid, or . . . I don’t even know what. But . . . we could try that. Tell you what. Why don’t you you close your eyes, and we’ll be moving again before you know it,” he says. 

I want to be irritated. There’s that implication again -- that I’m a small, scared kid who needs to be soothed. Only, he used the word we, as if it’s something he’s having a hard time adjusting to, as well. 

“All right,” I say. 

“You’ll allow it?” he asks, a light teasing edge in his voice. “Okay. So, first of all, you need to be comfortable. Usually there was warm milk involved, but . . . do you have enough blanket?” he asks, and I nod. “Here, hold on,” he says, and I feel the bed shifting as he repositions. “Here. Lay on me.” 

I laugh. “I’m all right.” 

“No, I’m serious,” he presses. “It’ll be more comfortable than being curled up into a little ball over there -- I swear.” 

Hesitantly, I rest my head on his arm. He’s warm and solid and smells like cinnamon and something else that I can’t quite place, and he nestles a little bit closer to me once I’m settled. 

“So, there was this one time, when I was pretty little, and my dad took me to a fair . . .” 

There’s more. There are a lot of details that I probably wouldn’t have asked for, given the choice. Things about bright lights and ferris wheels and fair food -- something called a funnel cake with powdered sugar on it. I decide that it’s pointless to keep a list of all of the things he’s saying that make no sense to me. 

And besides, I think it’s more about the voice he’s using than what he’s saying, anyway. He’s being quiet, and though he’s using inflections -- his voice goes a little bit deeper when he repeats something that his father told him. Not in a cruel way, exactly, just so that I know who’s talking. His tone isn’t the same as you’d use when trying to coax a child to sleep. He’s just talking to me. But there’s still something almost soothing about it. 

I decide it must not have anything to do with Peeta. My father used to tell me stories, when I was little. Not about carnivals or amusement parks, but about the woods, or fairytales that his parents once told him. I wouldn’t think that a capitolite’s voice would ever remind me of my father, but there is something about the way he’s speaking to me that makes me feel almost safe. Protected, if nothing else. 

Protected enough that I feel myself dropping off while he tells me about the way he and his brothers argued about who would sit together so often that his father just decided to take Peeta on rides by himself. Protected enough that when Peeta’s voice trails off in a yawn, I murmur something that’s supposed to sound like goodnight and bury my face a little bit further into his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless gratitude to: Gentlemama, Greenwool, Wistfulweaverwoman, and AmeliaZenitram for their help with this monster of a chapter, and to Sothere and Stacylk, as well as AmeliaZenitram and Gentlemama for word-warring with me this week.


	3. what he wants

I wake with Peeta’s arms around me. I know it’s my fault. I meant to roll away last night, after he fell asleep or finished the story. But I was so tired and he was so warm. I’m so used to sharing a bed with my sister. That must be why I couldn’t fall asleep in the first room he had set me up in. And while I may have gotten a decent night’s rest,  I can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it now that I feel his breath on my neck. What must he think, now? Not that he needs to keep his hands to himself -- clearly, with the way that his arms have settled around me.   
  
Tears sting at the back of my eyes.

Stupid!

That  was probably the only chance I would ever have to sleep on my own, and I wasted it! Carefully, I pull myself from the bed. Years of hunting have made my footsteps silent enough that he doesn’t even stir until the pressurized doors open, and even then, he doesn’t sit up. I watch, frozen in place, as he turns off onto his side, grunting a little. Once I’m sure I won’t be caught, I dive into the hallway. We’re flying along the rails again, so quickly that I have to brace myself with a hand on the wall as I head down the corridor.   
  
My first stop is the room that Peeta tried to leave me in last night, where I peel off my sleeping clothes and put on the first dress that my mother gave me, the one that I was wearing when he showed up in the Seam. Though I’ve never cared about this sort of thing before, I find myself close to wishing that I had more to wear. He’s probably never worn the same thing twice in one week, and he’ll laugh at me for doing so. I leave my hair pinned up, because it still looks decent enough. I eye the bed, almost able to bring myself to regret the decision to join him last night.

It probably thrilled him, you sneaking into his bed.

My cheeks feel hot just at the thought. I head for the dining car and begin to wonder if the peaceful night sleep I got was worth the message I must have given him.   
  
It’s early enough in the morning that the Capitolites aren’t in the dining car. No one is, really, save for the attendants. I look for a sign telling me to leave, but none are posted, and the redheaded server doesn’t look like she’s trying to shuffle me out of the room when she asks if I need help.   
  
“I wanted to bring food to -- to my room,” I say. “Is that all right?”   
  
She tells me that of course it is, and that I could have just ordered something called room service, and then leads me to another car, this one clearly more aimed towards self-service, and gives me a little platter. While I’m not sure what he wants, I want everything. There’s no shortage of tempting food in the room, though I try to limit myself to only what I know I could eat by myself. The girl helps me to load everything onto my platter, apologizing so profusely when she fumbles with an orange that I wince, remembering the way that the boy last night was screamed at.   
  
“It’s all right,” I try to assure her. “How long have you worked on the train?” I ask, sliding the tray along the railing of a table filled with yet more fruit. While there’s no telling if Peeta will even like what I choose, it’s been so long since I’ve had first pick of fresh fruit that I load an entire plate with just that. I know that I’ll run out of space soon, though, so I keep myself from taking too much.   
  
“Almost a year,” says the girl.   
  
I want to ask more questions. How she learned about this job. Whether or not she signed up for the registry, as well. If it’s always as bad as it had seemed last night. “I’m headed to the Capitol,” I admit, my voice wavering as I say it out of loud for the first time. I realize that she must know, but she’s far too kind to say it.   
  
 There’s an entire table dedicated to different types of coffees, and while I feel absolutely useless trying to pick one, I take a little press at random, as well as a little dish of sugar cubes and two mugs. I’ve never had coffee before, but my mother loves it. I’d like to try it, and now seems like the right time. Peeta had mentioned his fondness for it, yesterday morning, over tea. My mother had apologized for not having any, and he shook his head. Said that he had just been wondering if I liked it. It was before he had met my eyes, and though I can’t help but feel uncomfortable remembering that, I think he’ll probably be happy   
  
“Do you need help bringing it to your room?” she asks, and I shake my head. I want to do this myself, even if the platter is full enough that it weighs my arms down as I set it onto the rolling cart that the attendant sets out for me. Two long-stemmed glasses of orange juice -- a last minute addition -- slosh with the motion of the train. I have to stand with my eyes closed for a moment before I open the door in an attempt to adjust to the speed.   
  
I guess I had figured he would still be sleeping. I’ve heard of Capitolites who sleep all the way into the afternoon, and he was up early, yesterday, when I stormed into the house covered in mud. So I’m more than a little surprised that he’s on his feet when the pressurized doors open. If I didn’t know better, I would think that he was looking for something. Only, he’s just sort of pacing. That is, until he whirls around to face me, the tension melting from his shoulders immediately.   
  
“Hey!” he says. “You brought breakfast!”   
  
I feel my cheeks warming.  “Yeah. I, um, I didn’t know what you’d want--”   
  
He steps towards me, arms extended. For a foolish second, I think he’s going to embrace me, but he’s just taking the tray from my hands. “Anything,” he says, setting the tray down on the bed.    
  
“But I remembered you said that you liked coffee yesterday morning, and I . . .” I stop rambling, my cheeks heating up. He just smiles warmly.   
  
“Yes. Thank you. You’ve been busy,” he says, and I think I can hear the approval in his voice. Good. Though he’s from the Capitol, I know now that he values usefulness.   
  
 “Um, not really.”    
  
I can’t fathom why he’s so happy to see me -- or the tray of food -- but he’s beaming at me. “You brought breakfast,” he says again, his voice a little airier this time. Like he can’t believe it. “Sorry. It’s just . . .” he trails off with a dismissive wave of his hand and I frown, because I wanted to hear the end of that sentence. He tosses the pillow to the floor and sits cross-legged on the bed, motioning for me to join him. I sit on the other end, facing away from the window, and regret it when I realize that I have nowhere to look but at him.   
  
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.   
  
I open and close my mouth two, three times, trying to come up with a response. Yes. I did sleep well. But I’m also mortified that I was so close to him. “Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”   
  
“Yeah, of course,” he says.   
  
Peeta hands me one of the mugs and offers me some of the cream, but I shake my head.   
  
I can’t help the face I make when I first take a drink. I’m not sure what I had expected, but it wasn’t something so strong. I look down at the contents of the mug, trying to figure out whether or not I’ll be able to stomach the entire thing. Peeta, who I realize has been watching me, bites his lips together. He’s trying not to laugh at me. I take another drink, just out of stubbornness, but this one is bigger than the first and harder to get down.   
  
“Have you ever had it before?” he asks gently.   
  
I shake my head, going for a third sip. I just need to finish the mug, and if I take a few more big drinks, I should be able to do it before it gets cold. Something tells me this would be even worse cold.   
  
“Try it with the cream,” he says softly. I shake my head.   
  
“Katniss,” he presses when I don’t accept the offer. “Even I can barely drink my coffee black, and I’ve been drinking it my whole life.”   
  
I look up from my mug and see his eyes are still trained on me. I had suspected as much.   
  
“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”  
  
It’s quiet for a moment.   
  
“I don’t want to waste it,” I say, maybe a bit petulant, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.   
  
 “No. We won’t waste it,” he says, and I get the distinct impression that he’s trying to coddle me again, because I can only imagine how much food Capitolites must throw away, considering what I’ve found in the merchant’s bins. “I’ll drink it. I was going to get a second cup anyway, and you look like you’re in pain trying to get that down.”   
  
There’s a smile playing at the corners of his lips, so I look down at my mug, embarrassed. I hate it, being laughed at.   
  
“My mother likes it. I thought . . . I wanted to try it.”  
  
“What in the world are you sorry about?” he asks. “It’s an acquired taste. But we’ll find something you’ll like the first time you have it,” he promises.   
  
We do -- a muffin that Peeta and I split, with raisins and nuts. But -- maybe after seeing how quickly I devour my half -- he holds his towards me after taking only one bite.   
  
“You don’t want it?” I ask, not entirely sure why I’m trying to talk him out of it.   
  
He shakes his head, as if it can’t possibly matter whether he wants it. “Nope,” he says, maybe because he can tell I’m still unconvinced. “It’s all yours.”   
  
Pleased, I eat the other half of the muffin. We share everything that I brought up to the room, half and half, but I drink his glass of orange juice. I’ve only ever even had an orange once in my life, as a special treat at New Year’s. Only, I can picture the pitying look that he would give me if I mentioned this, so I decide to keep it to myself.   
  
  “Hey, when did the train start moving again?” I ask between mouthfuls of hot oatmeal.   
  
“Sometime around three,” he answers. “We went really fast, at first. Making up for lost time, I think.”   
  
It’s like he’s just been waiting for me to speak, because now that I have, he can’t possibly be expected to be quiet. He chatters on and on, about how he thought about waking me when we passed the ocean, but decided I’d probably rather sleep, and that we’d see it again anyway.   
  
“You were up late,” I say, and he ducks his head, as if embarrassed. “I just mean -- I feel bad for waking you up if you had such a hard time getting back to sleep.”   
  
“No! I’m glad you did,” he says. “I mean, not that I’m glad you were freaked out! Just -- I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to find me.”   
  
“I know,” I say.   
  
He may even be more nervous than I am. The thought is ridiculous, but the more he rambles, the more convinced I am. It’s like he said last night, about how he was afraid that he would say the wrong thing and ruin literally everything.   
  
“Um, I’m glad I came last night, too.” I say. “But I feel like I wasted the room you bought.”   
  
A warm smile spreads across his face. “Oh, man,” he says. “I can’t think of anything that could possibly be less of a waste.”   
  
I try to come up with a good response, but I can’t. The problem is, I know he isn’t lying. He isn’t trying to make me feel better, or anything. He’s just genuinely glad that I came last night. I wish I hadn’t, but I focus instead on taking another drink.   
  
 “Fair warning,” he begins, and my eyes snap to his. “Oh! No, it’s nothing bad,” he says. “At least, I hope not. My assistant -- at the bakery, I don’t like, have a personal assistant. I’m not that important,” he says, and I manage a smile in acknowledgement of his joke. “Anyway -- she’s dying to meet you. I’ll have to stop by the bakery later and pick up the key so she and Finnick don’t just decide to drop in on us.”   
  
“She has a key to your house?” I ask.   
  
“Only for this weekend!” he says, sounding playfully defensive. “I -- look, I was trying to find a way to save you from having to go to the bakery.”   
  
I watch as horror settles over his features.   
  
“Not that you couldn’t handle it! Just . . .”  
  
I don’t make it any easier on him by responding. It would be interesting to see how far he would go to try and assure me that he doesn’t think I’m weak.   
  
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to offend you. I just want these first few days -- well, I mean, obviously not just these first few days . . . I want things to be as easy as you on possible,” he says. “And -- I mean, I just thought . . . I wanted you a little more comfortable before I exposed you to everyone there.”   
  
“Why?” I ask. “I mean -- what are they going to do?”   
  
His eyes go wide. “Nothing! No! They’re not -- I’m not going to let anyone do anything to you. And more than that, I mean, they wouldn’t. They’re good people. Um,” he clears his throat. I can practically see the gears in his head turning as he tries to work out something to say that won’t offend me.   
  
“I should restart, probably,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. That’s when the blank mask that I’ve managed to let settle over my face slips, and my lips tic up into a smile. It only lasts for a moment, but that’s enough. He sees it, and his eyes widen.   
  
“You’re messing with me!” he says.   
  
I feel a little bit disappointed, but I still nod.   
  
“You totally had me going,” he says, and tosses his head back, making a slightly pained noise that’s ruined by his laugh. “Come on, Everdeen. That was mean.”   
  
I might worry that he was serious if he wasn’t grinning. Only, then he must realize the same thing that I do. As good as it was to hear my name again, it hangs heavily between the two of us, serving mostly as a reminder of why I’m here.

“Um. Mellark,” I say, entirely for his benefit. Though the name almost burns as it comes out, it earns me a smile even bigger than the last.   
  
“Yeah,” he says lightly.    
  
“It was too easy,” I say, and he shakes his head ruefully.   
  
“Mean,” he says again, though he’s grinning.   
  
  
Before too long the train sinks into darkness. When I tense, he tells me that it’s all right. That we’re just headed into the Capitol. It’s funny that he thinks that it would comfort me, that we’re nearly there. I don’t say anything, though. I just twist around until I can see the window and nod when he asks if I’m all right.   
  
The last thing that he wants, I think, is a wife who isn’t all right.   
  
  
  
The woman in the station who verifies that I’m who I say I am, and allows me to leave with Peeta seems fascinated by me. She doesn’t have to look at the screen while she taps words in, so I rarely get to see the length of her bright green eyelashes because she’s watching me. I think she may be around my mother’s age, but I’m not positive. The pinkness of her hair and the patterns on her shirt are too distracting for me to get a good look at her face.   
  
“Well, I don’t come across many brides from outlying districts,” she chirps. “Honestly, it may be because no one is . . . adventurous  . . .  enough to try and tame a girl from Twelve.”

  
 “I have no interest in taming her. What the fuck?” Peeta demands, and the woman gasps at the word.   
  
“Obviously not, if you’re using that sort of language in front of her.”   
  
He laughs, looking over at me. I’m used to language, after all my time in the mines. And besides, his question wasn’t too different from the one in my head.   
  
“I know you probably won’t listen to my advice, but honestly, if you treat her like a savage, she’ll act like one.”   
  
“A savage?” Peeta and I both echo at the same time.

He may even be angrier than I am. I can see the hardness in his eyes. Recognize his voice from when he was angry with the innkeeper for insisting that he should break me in in private.   
  
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” the woman begins, but I cut her off before she can tell me why in the world that’s supposed to be acceptable.

  
“Is this what counts for manners in the Capitol?” I ask, deciding that Peeta cannot think that I’m defenseless. “Calling strangers savages?”   
  
The woman looks thrown by my question, but Peeta looks more than a little pleased.

“And actually, I spent all day in the fucking mines,” I say, enunciating the word in a slight imitation of the way she speaks. “So his language doesn’t bother me.”

Peeta nearly chokes. His shoulders shake with laughter and he clasps a hand over his mouth. I feel oddly emboldened, and I lift my chin.  There! I feel so pleased with myself that I can’t help but to laugh. Not quite as hard as Peeta is -- his face is bright red -- but more than I have in a while. In fact, I think it almost counts as a fit of giggles. Especially when the woman huffs and says that we’re behaving “Like a couple of children!” which I have maybe never done in my life.   
  
“Shit, Katniss,” Peeta says once he’s started to recover. There’s something in his eyes, admiration, I think, that makes me duck my head. “I mean -- shit, Katniss.”   
  
That’s all he can say. I laugh again, pressing my hands to my cheeks and hoping that they’re not as red as they feel. She prints out a piece of paperwork and shuffles us along, and Peeta and I walk towards the exit.   
  
“It’s like that innkeeper!” he says, his hands going up in the air, but he freezes. I don’t realize until he lowers them that it’s because I shifted backwards. It’s not that I thought he would strike me, exactly, just that it startled me. He must know this, based on the way he’s studying me.   
  
I swallow hard. “He wouldn’t --” I stop myself short, not wanting to say that he wouldn’t trade with me. “He only said that because of where I’m from,” I say instead. “If I was taking you to the apartment above some shop, he wouldn’t have cared.”   
  
“I’ve been trying to figure out a way to not give him our business when we go back,” he says.   
  
 “My mother would let you -- let us stay with them again! If . . . if you would want to. I mean, you wouldn’t have to take the couch again. Obviously,” I say, trying to reign in my excitement. I’m rambling, just the way that Peeta had earlier, and I swear that I can see the smile on his face.    
  
“Katniss, I don’t mind the couch,” he says. “Of course I would want to. I kept thinking, you know, I wish that I had more time. So that I could meet your friends and stuff.”   
  
My friends. I don’t have friends. At least, not anymore. “I just -- would want to see Prim,” I admit.   
  
He gives me a warm, if not slightly sad, smile. “I understand that,” he says gently, but I don’t think he possibly could.   
  


Compared to the speed of the train, there’s nothing exciting about riding in Peeta’s car. It’s different -- I’ve never been in a car before and I don’t expect for the straps he secures around me to be loose enough for me to lean forward. He closes the door behind me, coming around to the other side and fastening his own seatbelt.   
  
He points things out, occasionally. When we’re stopped at a light, he points out a candy-colored building and tells me about how he has a friend who lives there. I wonder what sort of a building I’ll be expected to call home at the end of this trip.   
  
 He has a lot of plans for next time. Next time, he wants to show me where he works. Next time, he’ll take me down the road he grew up on. Next time, he’ll try to show me around a little better. For now, though, his focus is on getting to his place. I’m glad. I think I can only take this city in bits and pieces at a time, and there’s no way to hide from the spindly, candy-colored buildings from my seat in his car.  
  
I breathe out a sigh of relief when the road he turns down leads to clusters of houses. They’re not grouped together quite as tightly as the ones in the Seam are, and they’re too large for me to imagine one family taking up all of the room inside, but they’re at least distinguishable as houses.   
  
“Almost there,” he says. It takes a couple more minutes, but eventually, the car slows to a crawl in front of a house.   
  
It’s massive, like the others that I’ve seen today. Too big for just the two of us, and certainly too big for just him.The siding is yellow and the shutters are white, and the lawn isn’t meticulously kept. Dandelions sprout up in clusters across the yard, and I think of the story he told me the day before yesterday, about his parents trying to kill them.   
  
He drives down a pathway and straight into a room of the house, where the wall retracts to let us in.   
  
“So. . . here we are,” he says, turning the key.   
  
The car goes silent, and I follow his lead, opening my door. I follow closely behind him as he heads for the house, but he still keeps glancing over his shoulder. He’s nervous, I think. He had said as much, last night, and I suppose it would make sense. I was a little uneasy at the sight of him in my house. It isn’t hard to imagine it would be similar for him, if not for different reasons.

  
“Hey there,” he says lightly. “Still with me?”   
  
He’s teasing, I think. But not completely. There’s something like genuine concern in his voice. I nod even though I’m not sure I am.

  
The entryway leads straight into a sitting room with dark hardwood floors and high ceilings. It’s too much. Too big. On the train, I suppose it was bearable because I knew that it was temporary. But this -- this is permanent, apparently -- and for some reason just the sight of it makes me feel nervous.    
  
“Come on in,” he says with a little smile, leaning against the wall and yanking his shoes off. I’m surprised, considering how nice the house is, that he just kicks them off into a corner. I follow his lead, stepping out of my mother’s shoes. Only, I’m not sure where to put them.   
  
A little sheepishly, Peeta retrieves the shoes. “My mother would lose it if she saw me do that,” he says with a little laugh. I can’t imagine why it should matter -- I’ll be cleaning up after him anyway, right? A pair of shoes isn’t that much to add to my job. Only, then he says, “I should get better at putting them away now that you’re here. I got into the habit of just kicking them off.”   
  
My shoulders twitch up in a little shrug, and he gives me a smile. He offers to show me around and leads me into the sitting room. There are a couple of pictures hanging up above the fireplace. I’m not sure what they’re supposed to be. Maybe not anything. Just colors, all swirled together, heavy and dark and thick. A white staircase cuts through the back of the room with a railing that I wonder if Peeta has to hold onto. I haven’t seen him have too much difficulty getting around with his leg, but I know that it can’t be easy, either.  
  
I’m almost ashamed by how much I like his kitchen. It’s filled with so much light, with a little table pressed right up against the window. Though I can’t figure out what most of them are meant to do, the shininess of the fixtures is almost beautiful.   
  
“Do you want the full tour?” he asks.   
  
I don’t, but I agree to it anyway. There’s a dining room, connected to the kitchen by a high arch in the wall. The table is longer than I can imagine the two of us needing, made of light wood that matches the rafters in the ceiling. There’s no cloth, just the grain of the wood, which matches the six chairs around it.   
  
It’s much less intimate than the table in the kitchen -- and will certainly afford me more space than in the bed this morning. I just can’t imagine why he would want so much space. On the bright side, it means that I’m going to have plenty to do when it comes time for me to clean the house. While he chatters, I think of what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll start at the bottom of the house and work my way up, so that I’m still hidden away when he gets home from work.   
  
“Where do you keep your broom?” I ask.   
  
He looks startled. “In the kitchen. Why? Is it a mess?”  
  
“No,” I say, but he’s already glancing around the room, as if checking for cobwebs or piles of dust. I regret asking, but it’s too late now. Things are uncomfortable, as if I’ve insulted his home, which is the last thing  I want to do.   
  
 “I just -- for when I . . . When you’re ready for me to start.”  
  
“To start?” he repeats incredulously, and my blood runs cold when I realize that I must have upset him, already. “What, did I hire you as a maid, or something?” he says.   
  
“I’m sorry,” I say. I know that he’s teasing me, or at least trying to, but it doesn’t make me feel very good. “I just thought --”   
  
“No, no, don’t be sorry,” he says, softening his voice. “I’m sorry, too. Yeah, no, that’s not why you’re here. I mean, you can help if you want, but . . . I don’t want you to think you’re here so that you can pick up after me, or whatever.”   
  
Then what am I here for? The problem is, I think I know the answer to that. I force my lips up into a sweet smile. “Thank you,” I say.   
  
He studies me for a moment. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Do you want to move on?”   
  
I’m not sure, and he must be able to tell.   
  
“We’ll finish it later,” he assure me with a little smile. “I want to start on lunch. What do you think?”   
  
“I can help,” I offer. “I mean, if you want me to.”   
  
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You ever made bread before?”   
  
“Yeah,” I say, and then think better of it. “Not like your bread, though, I’m sure.” I say, my voice light. “I’m excited to learn.”   
  
“All right,” he says with a smile.   
  
“I didn’t mean that your house is a mess,” I say while he starts to get things out. “I’m, um, I’m sorry that’s how it sounded.”   
  
He freezes. Turns to face me, half a bag of flour crumpled in his fist. There’s something about the look on his face -- I almost can’t stand it. “No. It didn’t -- it didn’t sound like you thought the house was a mess.”   
  
The house. I think he’s trying to correct me.   
  
“But you look upset.”   
  
“I’m not upset,” he says, and I actually believe him. “Really,” he insists. “But -- that’s not why I ordered you.”   
  
Oh. Why he ordered me. My stomach aches as I realize what he means, what he wants. Every muscle in my body tenses and then untenses, and I take a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to steel myself.   
  
What he wants. I’m rooted in my spot, though he turns around and continues working. What he wants. I know what he wants. I’ve known what he wants this entire time. After all, why else would he order me? I know that I won’t do anything if I don’t force myself to. I start to count in my head, but I know that I’ll never make it to ten, so I charge up to him and rest a hand on his back.   
  
He turns to face me, a question written all across his face. What am I doing? I’m not sure, either. Another deep breath, and then I’m too close to turn back. Peeta’s head turns away as soon as my lips brush the corner of his mouth, and I realize how I misjudged the situation when his hands rest on my shoulders, pushing me away -- but gently, so gently.   
  
“Woah there,” he says softly.   
  
I take a step backwards, enough to shake his hands off of me, and then another. Only, he follows. I look over my shoulder, trying to find the best escape route, but his voice interrupts me.   
  
“Hey. No, hold on,” he says. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave,” he amends, as if I have anywhere to go. “We should talk, I think.”   
  
I don’t. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less. “I’m sorry,” I say.   
  
He just shakes his head. “Sit down, okay?”   
  
 When I don’t comply, he sort of frowns.   
  
“All right. We can stand, I guess. But -- look,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “What was that?”   
  
A kiss, I think bitingly, but decide not to say as much. I shrug, instead. “I thought you wanted it?” my voice lifts at the end, betraying my embarrassment.   
  
“Katniss,” he says softly, almost pleadingly. “I don’t know what gave you that impression, but I’m sorry.”   
  
“You married me,” I say, my mortification melting away to reveal something much closer to irritation. “I thought that meant you . . .”   
  
I can’t even say it. Because he’ll just tell me I’m wrong, and the only thing worse than Peeta Mellark wanting me in his bed would be him not wanting me in his bed, because it’s only now that he’s met me he’s changing his tune.   
  
“I meant it, you know, when I said it was too fast,” he says, taking half a step forward and then rocking back on his heels, as if realizing that being so close to me isn’t a good idea. “I don’t want to rush into anything with you, and -- the look on your face, Katniss, before you kissed me? It was like you were about to take medicine.”   
  
I scowl.   
  
“Listen,” he says softly. “I don’t know how else to say this. I don’t want anything that you don’t want, okay? So don’t worry about trying to please me, or whatever. Okay?” he asks.   
  
“But what if I don’t want --” I stop myself, eyes finding the floor.   
  
“Then I don’t want it,” he says, his voice so soft that it’s almost irritating. “I can see where it’s confusing and I really am sorry about that,” he says. “But -- even though we are married, I want you to know that I don’t expect a thing from you, all right?”   
  
I manage to nod when I realize that he isn’t going to stop staring at me until I react, somehow. “All right,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”   
  
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says. “I should have been more clear, really.” He looks honest enough, those blue eyes of his wide and earnest. “Katniss -- and please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just, kind of sorting through today trying to figure out what was real or not,” he gives me a little smile. “I don’t really want anything in specific, okay? Just -- for future reference, or whatever. I just want you to be happy.”   
  
Does he know how much he’s asking for? He can’t possibly. I nod anyway.   
  
“Which isn’t me saying, hey Katniss, here’s a great idea, be all smiles for the rest of your life. Don’t do that. Please. I just mean -- I want you comfortable, okay? And there’s no way you’re gonna be comfortable if you’re trying to act like something you aren’t. Okay?”   
  
“Okay,” I say.   
  
I can't help but feel a little lost. I want -- badly -- to go upstairs and hide out in the bedroom until things blow over. Or, better yet, to go straight out that front door and find myself somewhere other than his house. But I feel guilty for thinking that as soon as I do. He's better than I had hoped for, not wanting me for a maid or --- much worse --- to share his bed. Really, the only problem he's presented so far is that I have no idea what he wants from me. Only, then he asks for it.

“I don’t suppose you still wanna help me make bread?” he asks lightly. It’s supposed to be a joke, but I don’t laugh.

 “I can still help, if you want,” I say. And then, even though I know that I’m technically not supposed to be saying or doing things just because I think he wants me to say or do them, I add, “I’ll stick to my side of the kitchen.”   
  
I wanted to make him laugh, but it didn’t work. “Katniss,” he begins.   
  
“I know,” I lie. “I’m kidding. What do you need me to do?”   
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual there's a mile long list of people to thank for helping with this chapter. Gentlemama, for beta-ing and fielding one in the morning "ok but consider this, what if it's awful" text messages. Wistfulweaverwoman and Greenwool for prereading and not letting me get away with being vague. To the people on tumblr who sent me messages while I was out asking about this fic -- thank you. Without going too much into details, Octobers and I have a long history of animosity towards each other. It almost won this year, but it didn't. I have basically the rest of the fic mapped out at this point, and it's a bit of a trip from where we are now, but I hope you all enjoy the ride as much as I do.


	4. a good day

            The window is small, but I am smaller. My hips -- the broadest part of me by far -- don’t so much as stick as I wriggle through the opening. There isn’t too much of a drop between the kitchen window and the ground, but I still have to take a moment to get my bearings once I’ve dropped to my feet. I’ll have to explain this to Peeta, the man I’m now legally obligated to love and obey. I should probably come up with some sort of excuse, like --  
  
            _I wasn’t running away. I just fell out the window while I was trying to clean it! And then I got lost and ended up on the bus that stops by your house every hour and a half, and I spent all day trying to get back, honest!_  
  
            He wouldn’t buy it, whatever I said. And it doesn’t matter if he would or not, because I’ll be back by the time he’s finished at work. I tried to pay attention while he told me about the customer that he had to go make happy, I really did. But I was too distracted by the fact that he was leaving. He was leaving! For the first time in over a week, I would be alone. No one’s eyes would be on me when I so much as shifted in my seat or got up to get a drink from my glass of water.  
  


            He had asked, while he double knotted his shoelaces, if I would like to come with him. I had to bite my top lip to try to keep it from curling in distaste. “No,” I said. “I’ll stay here,” I lied.

 

             
            After the train and Peeta’s car, I thought that the bus would be nothing new. I pay for my ride with the money that Prim insisted I should bring with me before we left for the station in Twelve and head for the first empty seat I find. It’s beside a man with a bright pink wig atop his head and a fluffy dog on his lap to match. The thing snarls at me when I sit down on the edge of the seat, teeth bared.  
  
            “Hey!” the man says. “Hush!”  
  
            The dog listens, though it watches me out of the corner of its eye.  
  
            “He keeps me safe,” the man says, though I can’t imagine what he protects him from if he’s so distrustful of a girl my size. “I like your shirt. It’s very quaint.”  
  
            I look down at my outfit. The shirt was my father’s. Since I’ve been here, I’ve pretty much just worn my mother’s dresses or the soft black stretchy pants that were in the drawer in the bedroom that Peeta gave me, but at the first chance to be alone -- really alone, not just for a couple of hours like when we go to sleep -- I pulled on something more familiar. I’ve missed having real pants. Missed the coarseness of denim against my thighs.  
  
            The man huffs. Tries again to make conversation. “Roger likes you,” he says, looking down at the dog. “He usually . . .” there’s more, but his accent is so thick that I have to work to pick out the other words. Something about strangers. He must not usually stay quiet around them.  
  
            “Oh,” I say.  
  
            The man seems pleased to have elicited a response. His words come even quicker now, and they’re even harder to sort out. “From Twelve?” I catch, and nod. I wish that he would leave me alone, but that doesn’t seem like an option. I resolve to get off at the next stop.  
  
            “Yes.”  
  
            “. . . are you off to meet your husband somewhere?”  
  
            My heart slams against my chest. He knows. He must know. But he looks oblivious when my eyes snap up to his face. Not like he’s about to whip out the sort of phone I’ve seen Peeta use and call some peacekeepers to snatch me up. But the longer I go without responding, the further the pleasant smile slips from his face.  
  
            “Yeah-- yes,” I say. “I am. Yes.”  
  
            The man is still chattering when the bus jerks to a stop and I dive for the exit.  
  
  
            I’m swept into a crowd as soon as I get off of the bus. I’ve never been around so many people in my life, and while I stumble the second time someone’s shoulder brushes mine, there’s something almost comforting about being able to disappear into the crowd. Peeta has been pleasant so far, but the idea of constantly being watched has been getting to me. Even though we have separate rooms, he sleeps with his door open just in case I decide to get up and do something stupid -- something like I just did.  
            But it doesn’t count as running away, surely, if I’m planning on coming back. I’d like to blame him. To say that if he didn’t want me to leave, he shouldn’t have kept me locked away all week. But even though we've only left the house once, to go to a market and get groceries for some dinner that he wanted to make, I know that leaving is my own choice. And while it may be a bad one, it’s the one I made.  
  
            I wish that I was strong enough to have disliked the extravagant meals he keeps setting in front of me, but I’ve eaten myself into a stomachache every night since I’ve been here. Of course, it could also be that my stomach has been in a knot ever since a couple of nights ago, when he was trying to find something to watch on the television that’s mounted above the dresser in my room.  
  
            While he was flipping from station to station, he landed on a channel with the words **_Breaking News!_** scrolling across the bottom. He sat up a little straighter, as if it was something important, so I paid particular attention to the well-groomed man standing outside of what looked to be a bigger version of the Justice Building I knew from District Twelve.  
  
            “Mr. Crane, Mr. Crane!” A reporter said. “What do you think the verdict will be?”  
  
            The man smiled, though it looked a bit more like he was baring his teeth. Reached up and scratched at his immaculately-groomed beard. “I know that the people of Panem will come to the right decision,” he said.  
  
            “Mr. Crane! Fulvia Cardew, Channel Eight. How valid are the claims that you’re already looking for your next bride?”  
  
            The man considered this for a moment. “Yes, they are absolutely valid. I believe the right to look for love is one of my rights as a citizen of this great nation. I don’t believe a string of bad luck should be enough to condemn me to being alone.”  
  
            “He’s disgusting,” said Peeta. “Killed two brides in as many years.”  
  
            The reporter, a man with blue hair and teeth two times bigger than I would think natural, explained on the screen how each of his wives were murdered. At least, I assume he did. He didn’t get past, “His most recent bride, Rue Crane, was eighteen years old and was found in the kitchen with multiple--” before Peeta turned the volume all the way down. But it was too late.  
  
            Every time Peeta used a knife after that, I refused to turn my back on him.  

 

            It’s not so much that his hands might wrap around my neck if the whim struck him. Not that Seneca Crane was probably a perfectly decent husband at first, too. It’s just, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m _angry_. I’m angry at Peeta, for thinking I’m some bird he can keep locked in a cage. I’m angry with myself, for signing up for this in the first place.  
  
            Not that I ever had a better option. We were starving to death -- my mother and sister refused to admit it, but we were. Maybe I could have worked on a bridal train, in another life. Could have served breakfast to the new brides and thanked my lucky stars that I wasn’t one. But now, even if Peeta decides to divorce me after this stunt, I won’t be allowed anywhere near a bridal train. Divorce is a crime -- for me, not for Peeta. I’ll be allowed to spend the rest of my life down in a mine, of course, but that isn’t enough to keep my family alive, or else I wouldn’t be here.  
  
            No. It’s not worth it to pursue that train of thought. I’m here. I have about an hour, I think, before I need to worry about how to get back to Peeta’s house. After this, who knows when I’ll be able to get out again? Though I’d like to pretend I’m not afraid of Peeta at all, the thought of him putting bars on the windows terrifies me. I’d never be able to leave again. Not without him at my side. Or, more accurately, me at his.  
  
            Vendors all talk over each other along the street, trying to get my -- anyone’s, really -- attention. One wants to braid my hair. Another offers me flowers. A third grabs my wrist as I pass.  
  
            “Where’s your husband?” he asks, his voice nothing but a hiss.  
  
            “I --”  
  
            “I have a blocker. It makes your tracker useless.” He’s rattling off prices, but I’m stuck on the word _tracker_. It’s that obvious, then, that I’m a bride. That’s why people keep watching me.  
  
            “I don’t -- I can’t,” I say, because I don’t have the money for it. “I --”  
  
            The man lets go of my arm. “It’s your funeral,” he says, and it may well be.  
  
  
            The sights, the smells, the people. It isn’t long before it’s all too much. It isn’t far to the beach -- there are plenty of signs directing me where to go. The air gets colder, the closer I get, and I can hear the crash of the waves. I’ve never seen the ocean before. It’s surrounded by bluffs, and there’s a wooded area that leads to a rock face that looks out over the waves. It’s a bit of a hike to get there -- the muscles in my legs are protesting badly by the time I make it to the top, so I slump to the ground and stay there, my knees pulled to my chest and my head resting on top of them.  
  
            I’ve done it now. Peacekeepers could come for me any time, and I wouldn’t have the chance to go back to Peeta’s house before he realized I was gone. Even now, I know that I _should_ be headed back, but I can’t bring myself to waste what may well be my only chance to be alone. Hot, traitorous tears burn at my eyes, and I let out a shaky breath through my mouth. I should hike back down. Should go back to Peeta’s house. But I can’t ride the bus while I’m in tears -- I can’t imagine how many more Capitolites would want to talk to me if I showed weakness.  
  
            I don’t know how long I sit there, trying hard not to cry. Just that I’m beginning to shiver by the time I feel more than hear someone sit beside me. “You know, if you wanted to see the beach, you could have just told me.”  
  
            It’s my husband. His voice is so casual. He’s trying particularly hard not to sound angry, but his voice has been too smoothed out. He’s practiced this, I think. I can’t breathe. How long was I on the bus? How long has he had to decide that he’s angry with me?  
  
            “It’s not that,” I manage, my voice weak. I wish I could muster up some anger, but I can’t.  
  
            “Yeah. Yeah, I figured,” he says. We sit in silence for a long moment until finally, his jacket settles over my shoulders. That’s when I realize that I’m shaking. “Listen,” he begins, just at the same time as I say,  
  
            “Peeta -- please don’t--”  
  
            “Please don’t what?” he asks when I stop myself. “Katniss?”  
  
            I turn to look at him, finally. Rather than being red in the face, he’s calm. Concerned. Too calm, maybe. I take a shaky breath, fighting every instinct to not climb up into a tree where he wouldn’t be able to get to me. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe he’ll stay this calm, then, as he loads me onto a train back to twelve.

 

            “I . . . I’ll be good,” I say. “I’ll -- I’ll stay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
  
            “You’re not a dog,” he says.  
  
            I swallow hard. ‘I’m sorry,” I say again.  
  
            “I know,” he says.  
  
            “I was going to come back,” I tell him. My voice wobbles when I do. Pathetic. “I was -- I wasn’t really running away.”  
  
            “I know,” he says again.  
  
            “How?”  
  
            “You wouldn’t have left your book if you were really leaving,” he says, reaching forward. I flinch away from the touch, but he’s just fastening the top button of his jacket. “But I think that--”  
  
            “Please,” I beg. “I was going to go back. I swear.”  
  
            “Please what?” he asks.  
  
            “Don’t send me away.”  
  
            “Send you away?” he repeats. “As in-- back to Twelve?”  
  
            Hot tears burn at the back of my eyes and I wipe them away with rough hands. “ _Please_ ,” I say. They’ll starve.”  
  
            There it is. I know, just from the look on his face, that he understands what Gale and Prim wouldn’t. But there's something else there, too. Not quite betrayal, but confusion. Disappointment.

 

            “You –” he begins, and then stops himself. He shakes his head, and for a moment I’m terrified that he means that of course he’ll send me away. “You never wanted . . .” he trails off. “You didn’t want to be married. You wanted to feed your family. It was -- it was all for them, you signing up.”  
  
            It’s not a question. I answer anyway. “Yes. I’m sorry, Peeta.”  
  
            It occurs to me for the first time that Peeta thought that I wanted to be married as badly as he did. I manage to nod, my eyes fixed on the waves that pound the shore below.

 

            “We wouldn't have made it through the year,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I -- there wasn't enough. I was working in the mines. Picking up as many extra shifts as I could. And . . .”

 

            “What?” asks Peeta when I've been silent for long enough. “You picked up as many shifts as you could and what?”

 

            “I hunted. In the woods. With my bow.”

 

            If he's disgusted, he doesn't show it. “And it wasn't enough.”

 

            “It wasn't enough,” I agree. I wipe at my eyes again. “So I marched myself down to the Justice Building. And I put my face in the catalog. But I didn't think I would be ordered.”

 

            “Why?” he asks, his voice sounding almost breakable, it's so thin. He isn't angry with me, at least.

 

            “I don't know.”

 

            It's silent for a long while.  
  
            “I’m sorry.”  
  
            He buries his face in his hands, tugging at some of his hair between his fingers. “Stop apologizing,” he mutters into his hands. “I can’t take it.”  
  
            I open my mouth, but when an apology almost slips out, I close it again.  
  


            “I thought – I don't know. I saw how scared you were when you opened the door. And -- the way your sister was crying . . .” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “I thought -- maybe they were just going to miss you. Maybe -- maybe _you_ were just going to miss _them_. But . . . I didn’t think . . .”  
  
            “I am. I mean, I do. Miss her.”  
  
            He watches me for a moment.  
  
            “I didn’t tell her,” I admit. “She thought our luck finally turned around. I mean -- our luck _did_ finally turn around. The money they gave me for putting my face in the catalogue was good. But -- nothing like what we . . . what they got from your payment.”  
  
            Peeta laughs, though it’s clear he doesn’t think any of this is funny. “It seems -- it’s despicable, isn’t it?” Peeta asks. “Wasting that kind of money on something as silly as getting married when people are starving.”  
  
            I shake my head. “Not a waste. It saved her life. Mine, too.”  
  
            “And then I whisk you off to the Capitol,” he says. “And the first thing I show you on TV is some news story about a man who ordered a wife and murdered her. And it scares you right out the window, doesn’t it?” he asks.  
  
            Scared. I feel a twinge of irritation that that’s what he thinks this is before I realize that he’s probably right.  
  
            “Just -- something could have happened to you. You know? I don’t want you hanging around the house all day waiting for me to get home or anything, but . . . at least let me buy you a cell phone before you hop on a bus to the city?”  
  
            I have no idea why it’s phrased like a question.  
  
            “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m not gonna let anyone else hurt you. And I’m not going to let your family starve,” he says. It’s a promise. “I didn’t know.  I thought -- I figured there would be some adjusting to do. For both of us. Getting used to being married. But -- if you didn’t ever even _want_ to be married . . .”  
           

“I’m sorry,” I say, before I remember I’m not supposed to apologize. “It’s not your fault you got a bad wife,” I say. It’s an attempt at a joke, but neither of us laugh. “But I don’t . . . I don’t know. How to act. Or what you want. Or  . . .”  
  
            “You’re not a bad wife,” he says. “But -- maybe you can just be Katniss? Can we start there?”  
  
            It’s quiet for a long moment. I let what he says wash over me, and then I reach over, covering his hand with mine. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you. For not being angry.”  
  
            His hand turns over, so he can hold mine. “Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he says. “And -- I owe you an apology. There’s a tracker, apparently. I . . . I didn’t know about it until today. They called me and said you were however many miles from me and -- I was scared. So I used it, obviously, but . . . I feel really fucking gross about it.”  
  
            “Oh,” I whisper.  
  
            “I want to get it removed,” he says. “As soon as we can. I -- I’m so sorry they did that to you. I’m sorry _I_ did that to you.”  
  
            “It wasn’t you,” I say. He doesn’t seem convinced. “I thought -- I thought you wanted it. I didn’t know if it was birth control or -- he just grabbed my arm while they were going over the forms with you.”  
  
            He hasn’t been smiling today, exactly, but he scowls for the first time since I’ve known him. It’s not like he’s angry at me so much as the situation. “No. Of course I didn’t want it,” he says. “But -- it was getting late. And if our locations didn’t sync up, they were going to send Peacekeepers. And . . . if you got lost . . .”  
  
            He doesn’t need to finish that thought. “Yeah. I didn’t know how to get back,” I say. “I -- would have figured it out. Or at least tried to.”  
  
            “I’ll show you how to read the maps,” he says. “Honestly -- did you take the bus?”  
  
            I nod.  
  
            “That’s what I thought. I’m impressed,” he says. I sort of laugh, but he presses on. “Seriously. Your first bus ride, right?”  
  
            I nod.  
  
            “Man. I wish I could have been there to see it,” he says, and though I feel guilty, it only lasts for a moment.  
  
  
            Now that he’s here, all the imagines I conjured up in my head of my husband throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me back to his house, kicking and screaming, seem ridiculous. He’s just sitting there, his eyes on me.  
  
            “Let’s go do something fun,” he says suddenly, as if just to prove how wrong I was.  
  
            Then he laughs, probably at the face I’m making, equal parts confusion and disbelief. I know that he said he wasn’t _mad_ at me, but -- this seems like something else entirely, him rewarding me for my disobedience. What was it he said earlier? That I’m not a dog?  
  
            _Something fun_. I open and close my mouth before I come up with a response. “Like what?”

 

            He has a few ideas, but the one he's most excited about is to take me to something called an arcade. It's full of games, he says. He and his brothers used to go, and he has a feeling I would like it. I can't imagine liking anything from the Capitol, but today isn't the day to push my luck and tell him that.

 

            So I let him bring me to the building that's mostly dark on the inside, other than the blinking lights on the machines. I watch him as he pays at the front counter with a little smile in my direction, and then I let him drag me over to a machine that he seems particularly excited about. He moves my hands into place at the bottom of the _pinball machine_ \-- the first time he’s really touched me since I tried to kiss him. Maybe I invited it, grabbing his hand earlier. The strangest thing is that I don’t hate it.  
  
            He puts a coin into the slot and leans over my shoulder as the machine glows to life, giving directions in my ear, telling me how to play the game. “Ready?” he asks.  
  
            He’s a gentleman --there’s an inch or two between his chest and my back, but I jerk backwards when I’m about to drop the ball and end up pressed against him for just a moment. He smells of cinnamon and dill. Warm and inviting. I move forward again, hunching over the controls a little. I don’t completely understand what the objective is -- to keep the ball from falling between the two little flippers, I guess. But as soon as Peeta hits the little red button that launches the ball into the field, it falls.  
  
            “You got it,” he crows the second time. “The left! The left!”  
  
            But it’s too late. I already hit the right one and the ball falls before I can get the left one to move. I scowl at the machine.  
  
            “Again,” he says. I mean to protest -- this entire thing is a waste of money and he may as well be the one playing. But he hits the button and I hit the flippers furiously, not letting them still.  
  
            “Slower,” he says. I don’t think I’m imagining the amusement in his voice. “Just a little -- there you go!”  
  
            Different parts of the board light up as my ball hits them, but it falls through the little gap again. The machine powers down -- I’m out of balls, apparently -- and I scowl at it.    
  
            “Again?” Peeta asks, sounding almost a little bit hopeful.  
  
            “Okay,” I say, straightening up a little. “Again.”  
  
            I get a little better at it, though not by much. Peeta calls me a quick learner. I narrowly resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. Not because he irritated me, or anything, but because I’m so used to doing it to Prim. There are more games. He rattles off the name of everything I spend more than a second looking at. _Air hockey. Pac-man._ And then there’s Peeta, who walks beside me. He isn’t playing, though. He’s just watching. And he looks --  
  
            I don’t know how to explain it.  
  
            “Show me how,” I insist, coming to a stop in front of another game. “Please?”  
  
            I don’t have to ask twice. I haven’t ever had to in the whole time I’ve known him.

 

The objective is clear enough. You have roll a ball up a slope and into these little holes that are covered by glass. He slows to roll up his sleeves, making a big show of it. I can’t help but to laugh, which seems to have been his goal.  
  
            When I roll the ball, it goes into one of the top holes -- one of the highest scoring ones.  
  
            “Katniss!”  
  
            I can’t fight my smile at his exclamation, pure joy. He’s so --  
  
            He’s nothing like I would have expected. Funny. Smart. Encouraging. I had been sure that my husband would be anything but kind. Had even tried to prepare myself for a life with a man like that. But Peeta . . .  
  
            “Go again!” he says. He’s bouncing on his heels. A little laugh escapes me, breathy and so unlike myself, and I indulge him.  
  
            The man isn’t just kind for a Capitolite. There are no qualifiers for anything good I have to say about him. He’s a kind man. A good one, even.  
  
            “You’re a natural,” he says. “I can’t believe it.”  
  
            I want to ask him what he can’t believe. Want to make some kind of stupid joke about how he assumed I wouldn’t be good at any fancy Capitol game, but I can’t bring myself to tease him. Not when he looks so earnest.  
  
  
            We’ve amassed two pockets full of tickets by the time he announces that he’s hungry. The dining area is a little more crowded than what we’ve run into so far, and his hand reaches for mine, as if automatically.  
  
            I don’t know who’s more surprised when I take it.  
  
             
  
            They’re called fries. They’re potatoes, he explains. Something that I’ve come to enjoy since I’ve been here. We’ve eaten them so many ways since he’s started cooking for me. Mashed. Baked. Mashed again. And then there are these --  
  


            “Fried. Obviously,” he says, scratching behind his ear as his neck begins to color. “Um. I love them.”  
  
            We haven’t eaten outside of his house yet. He’s told me once or twice about things he wants to take me out for, but what he makes has been so rich that I’ve been fighting stomach aches every night since we left for the Capitol. It’s part of why we’ve had so many potatoes, I think. Peeta’s noticed I’ve been a little green and thinks that they’d be easier on my stomach.  
  
            The fries are piping hot when we get them and bring them to a little table that’s really only big enough for the two of us.  
  
            It bothers him, I think, when I thank him for food. He never makes a big deal over it, but he does wince. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Any time.”  
  
            Peeta waits for me to take the first bite. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. It’s uncomfortably hot, and I think I burn my fingers. “Um,” I begin, just as he launches into a story about a time that his brothers took him to this same arcade.  
  
            I find myself laughing while he tells me about his brothers, who I feel I know, with how many stories I’ve heard.  
  
            He always looks sort of proud when he manages to make me laugh. Not in an arrogant way. It’s just that I can tell how hard he tries to entertain me. His eyes just sort of shine when his cheeks push them up, and for some reason, I feel a flicker of something low in my gut at the sight of it.  
  
            “Aren’t you going to eat some?” I ask, pushing the tray towards him. I’ve cleared at least a third of the fries by now.  
  
            He does, but he goes back to telling me about his trip with this brothers. It was while his mother and father were on vacation in Four, and though all week he and his siblings bickered, he remembers what a fun day they had.  
  
            “Your turn,” he says.  
  
            “I -- what?” I ask.  
  
            “Tell me about the happiest day you can remember from when you were a kid.”  
  
            Oh. I think for a moment, and then straighten up a little.  
  
            “This’ll be good,” he says, and I feel myself smile.  
  
            “I can’t remember how old I was,” I say. “Seven or eight or so. It was New Years and my father was off of work -- he worked in the mines, so he was only off on Sundays and -- well, New Years.”  
  
            “Didn’t you work in the mines too?” he asks.  
  
            “I did. Not at the same time.”  
  
            “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says. “Go on. He was off work.”  
  
            “Right,” I say. “Every time my father was off work, he took me out to the woods with him. It’s how I learned to hunt. This was no different,” I say. “But since it was New Years, we were looking for gifts for Prim and my mother. And -- Prim was too little to help, but my mother spent the day sewing. She made me this little doll.” I sort of laugh. “I slept with it in my bed for years.”  
  
            “Yeah?” he asks.  
  
            “And my father -- he wasn’t supposed to give me anything, but he did. An orange. The first orange I ever had -- and the only one, until that juice on the train.”  
  
            He looks stunned, just as I expected.  
  
            “It was a good day,” I say.  
  
            “I -- yeah. It sounds like it,” he says. “Okay. Number two.”  
  
            I laugh. “No way. I just went. It’s your turn.”  
  
            He sighs heavily, though he doesn’t have it in him to look put out, because he looks so genuinely _happy_ that the two looks can’t compete.  
  
            “So,” he says. “I’m twelve years old. Dylan got married a couple years back -- this is before they had kids. I get to go live with them for a whole month while school is out for the summer. No rules, basically. You know, clean up after yourself, stuff like that. So, anyway, his wife has this meeting she has to go to. Hours away. They get a hotel room. I get to be home alone. It’s glorious. I order pizza for lunch, eat ice cream for dinner.”  
  
            I give him a smile. “Sounds nice,” I say. I don’t know anything about _pizza_ or _ice cream._ But it’s not hard to figure out that it’s something good.  
  
            “Got in trouble for it, later,” he says. “For them leaving me alone without telling my parents. But, you know, what were they gonna do about it? It was too late. For the first time -- and I mean, like, _ever_ \-- my dad convinced my mom not to punish me for something. I got the silent treatment for a couple days. Those days make the best day list too,” he says with a wink.  
             
            I know almost nothing about his parents, but he doesn’t seem to particularly like either one of them. They never make the list of people he wants to introduce me too, though it seems like he’s holding plenty of people back from storming the house to meet me.  
  
            “I bought my sister a goat,” I say. “Lady. You met her.”  
  
            “I did!” he says. “That was you, huh?”  
  
            “That was me,” I say proudly.  
  
             
            We play the game he called air hockey when we’re finished with our fries. He tells me again that I have good aim. But then my hand rests on the table when he shoots for the goal right in front of me and he gapes at me.  
  
            “Cheater!” he says. “You’re a cheater! I can’t believe it!”  
  
            My cheeks color. “I’m not cheating!”  
  
            “Yes you are! Hands _off_ , Everdeen.”  
  
            I pull my hand up from the table.  
  
            “Better,” he says. “But I’ve got my eyes on you.”  
  
            I roll mine at him, and he looks so pleased that I can’t help my laugh.  
            While he’s carrying on, I manage a goal. He looks stunned.  
  
            “Katniss!” he says again, and I laugh.  
  
            “What?” I tease. “You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”  
  
            His mouth drops open. “That’s not it at all! I just --”  
  
            “I know,” I say.  
  
            “So _mean_ ,” he says, his voice a whisper as he holds his hand to his heart. “I don’t know if I can take it, honestly.”  
  
            “I -- hope you can,” I say, fearing that I've taken it too far.   
  
            “I totally can,” he says with a grin.  
  
  
            When we’ve played all the games we can, Peeta gathers up all the little red tickets we’ve earned and rests them on the counter, where they’re fed through a machine and counted up. In the end, we have enough to buy anything from the bottom shelf, and though I tell Peeta I don’t want anything, he insists.  
  
            We end up taking a little stuffed rabbit with us. It’s the sort of thing I would have loved to have given to Prim when she was younger. But it’s too late for that. And besides, it’s a gift from Peeta, I think. At any rate, I carry the rabbit out of the building and to the car.  
  


  
  
            “Hey, Peeta?” I ask after dinner, when I’m about to head upstairs for bed.  
  
            “Yes?” he asks.  
  
            “Today was a good day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Gentlemama for betaing, Greenwool for coming up with both plot points in this chapter lol, and to Wistfulweaverwoman, and AmelinaZenitram for the hand-holding and prereading for this chapter. Don't quote me on it or anything, but I think we're on the slope that leads to fluff, here. 
> 
> I'm knittingkatniss on Tumblr. Come say hi!


	5. Cordelia

            Something is wrong. Before Peeta even knocks, I can hear the animal footsteps that bound towards the door and the low growl that comes along with them. He shifts his weight onto his back foot as soon as he’s pressed the button on the side of the wall, as if he needs to put as much space between him and whatever creature it is on the other side of the door as possible. The howling is so loud that it makes my ears ring, so I’m not surprised to see a dog when the door opens.  
  
            What I am surprised by is the fact that the woman who opens the door is _cooing_ at the dog that strains to try to get to us. There’s no mistaking the fact that the woman is related to my husband, even with her face obscured by the black lace of a veil like the one Peeta bought for me that reaches all the way down to the train of her dress. Her hair has been colored a deep blue, and the strands that frame her face have obviously been wrapped around a curling iron. The dog is pulling against the woman’s hold on her jewel encrusted collar, panting.  
  
            “Good _girl_ ,” she’s saying, using her free hand to reach down and scratch at the dog’s ear. “Oh, what a good puppy you are.”  
  
            I look over at Peeta, wanting to see if he thinks it’s ridiculous, too, for her to call such a huge creature a _puppy_. He doesn’t seem to think it’s silly, though. He’s terrified. And I suppose I can see why. The dog is massive. Bigger than any I’ve ever seen and covered in thick fur that’s probably been dyed, since I’ve never seen a dog that produces purple fur on its own. On all fours, it’s probably a little over half as tall as I am, but it keeps rearing up.  
  
            “Are you going to stand there all day?” she asks, but I don’t take a step into the house until Peeta does. As soon as the door is closed, she lets go of the dog, and I realize that she wasn’t protecting us from the dog -- she was making sure that the dog didn’t run out the front door and get lost. The dog’s lip curls up as it snarls, cornering us. “How was your trip?”  
  
            Neither of us respond. Loathe as I am to let the animal out of my sight, I have to look over at Peeta and see what he’s thinking. His face is white as the sheet that he covered his bedroom mirror with before we left this morning, and his breath is coming in harsh pants.  
  
            “Good girl, Missy,” she says, just as I’m thinking of kicking the dog in the face so we can sneak back out the door. “You keep us safe, don’t you?”  
  
            “C-- can . . .? Will you call her off?” he asks, his voice weak.  
  
            “Let her smell your hand,” says the woman, crossing her arms over her chest.  “She just needs to learn your scent.”  
  
            I find myself wishing for my bow. That way Peeta and I would be safe. The dog’s eyes are huge. Big enough to make for a good target. Its ears flatten when I hold my hand out for it to sniff, fingers safely tucked into my palm.  
  
            “Katniss,” Peeta says softly, and I don’t dare tear my eyes from the animal to see what’s wrong. “Careful.”  
  
            Of course I’ll be careful. I’m always careful. He doesn’t know this, though. I give him a little nod. The dog finally quiets at a command from the woman, and then trots off into the other room, where she points with a snap.  
  
            “Oh, _honestly_ , Peeta,” says his mother.  “You don’t have to make such a big deal out of everything. She was just saying hello.”  
  
            He clears his throat. I think he’s going to tell the woman how unreasonable she’s being, but instead he says, “Hey, Mom.”  
  
            The woman -- Mrs. Mellark -- offers him a hello.  The dog is growling again in the other room, and she gives him a quick hug before she goes off to attend to her pet. Peeta lets out a shaky breath and offers me a strained smile.  
  
            Peeta’s grandmother’s funeral is tomorrow. Or, more accurately, the first day of Peeta’s grandmother’s funeral is tomorrow. The event lasts for four days -- I know this because that’s how many black dresses Peeta bought for me. One for each day of the ceremony. There’s more. A veil that I’ll have to wear, like the one that Mrs. Mellark is wearing, but much shorter. No one other than his mother is wearing black tonight, maybe because we’ll all be so sick of it by the end of the week. I haven’t met everyone yet, and some relatives will be arriving tomorrow, though Peeta and I are on the later end of the spectrum as far as when we show up. His oldest brother, Dylan, his wife, and their child have been staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mellark since they got the news that their grandmother passed away.  
  
            Tomorrow, cousins will be coming. Aunts, uncles, and Peeta’s other brother, Rye, and his husband, Klaus, live even further away than we do. They’re going to wait until their daughter wakes up in the morning to leave, because they don’t want to put her in the car when she’s tired. Peeta joked, when we were on the way over, that they’re just stalling so that they don’t have to spend too much time with their family before the ceremony begins. Peeta was willing to give me every single detail about their family, even though I didn’t ask for any. How old Cordelia is, how long ago they adopted her. How long it’s been since the two of them got married. I wonder if I would be that happy for Prim, if she were to go off and marry someone. If it would be possible for me to like the person she married just as much as Peeta seems to care for Klaus, who he’s announced is “Just the nicest guy.”    
  
            But there was something in his voice when he was telling me about how they met. How they’ve been together for years. Something -- wistful, almost.  
  
            I didn’t even notice the man in the hallway. He steps forward, now that Mrs. Mellark is gone, and wraps Peeta into a hug. Peeta pats the man on the back and then introduces me, a courtesy I realize that he didn’t extend to his mother.  
  
            The four of us end up sitting on one end of an almost comically large dining room table. Mrs. Mellark at the head, Mr. Mellark one side of her, and Peeta and I at the other. The dog is on a raised pedestal bed, eyeing us distrustfully, and Peeta’s hand is clenching at the arm of the chair with white knuckles.  
  
            “So, Katniss.” _COT-nisssss_. “Tell me,” says his mother. “Has _he_ been keeping _you_ from us, or have _you_ been keeping _him_ from us?”  
  
            I laugh uncomfortably.  
  
            “Mom,” Peeta protests.  
  
            “It’s a fair question,” she says, straightening a little bit. “You order a bride and fall off the map, and only come around when your father’s poor mother passes away. We would have loved to have thrown you a wedding,” she sniffs.  
  
            Peeta’s eyes meet mine, just briefly. “Thank you, Mom, but that’s really not necessary.”  
  
            I sigh in relief. Images of puffy white dresses and doves flying around were already flashing through my head.  
  
            “Katniss and I are already more married than any fancy ceremony could make us,” he adds, and I force myself to smile.  
  
            It’s so strange when it comes up that he really does think of me as his wife. He’s been so -- friendly with me, that it’s almost as if I can forget, sometimes, that he ordered me to have and to hold for as long as I should live or until he finds something better.  
  
            “First Rye and Klaus--”  
  
            “What about Rye and Klaus?” asks Peeta. “They let you throw them a wedding.”  
  
            She huffs. “Don’t interrupt. It’s rude. Rye fought me every step of the way on that wedding. Saltwater? A _fishing net_? It was horrifying.”  
  
            “It was sweet,” Peeta says, more to me than to her. “Klaus is from District Four. They wanted to incorporate--”  
  
            “It was _ridiculous_ ,” his mother says. “Not that I’d ever tell _them_ that. They were so proud of that stupid fishing net they made.”  
  
            “The couple is wrapped in a fishing net when they say their vows,” Peeta explains. “Klaus’s family _made_ fishing nets. So they sent a box of supplies when they got word that he was getting married. They spent weeks on the thing.”  
  
            “It was hideous,” says Mrs. Mellark with an indignant huff.  
  
            Peeta makes a show of raising his eyebrows at me, and I have to actively fight my smile.  
  
            “I have pictures, somewhere,” Peeta says. “You’ll like Klaus, I think.”  
  
            I can’t make any promises, and Peeta must know that, because he flashes me a grin.  
  
            “You didn’t even have a white dress, did you?” asks Mrs. Mellark. “Poor thing.”  
  
            I swallow hard.  
  
            “She looked lovely,” Peeta says. “She _always_ looks lovely.”  
  
            My cheeks are so hot that they hurt. I watch the tea in my mug, hoping that they’ll stop talking about me like I’m not here, even if Peeta is saying nice things.  
  
            They talk more about Rye and Klaus, now that Peeta has effectively shut down the line of conversation about me. “Cordelia is starting to warm up a lot,” Peeta announces. “Last time we had lunch she was telling me about her --”  
  
            “She only likes you because they take her to see you more often than they let her see her grandparents,” interrupts his mother.  
  
            “I meet them near their house,” he corrects, clearly more for my sake than anyone else’s. I think it must just not be worth it, arguing with Mrs. Mellark outright. But’s so strange, being included in an argument I wasn’t around to see the beginning of.  
  
            “And honestly, I think that girl could benefit from some stricter discipline. They've been coddling her.”  
  
            “She’s not spoiled!” Peeta defends.  
  
            “Well, it’s not like Dylan and his family have been throwing a four month long temper tantrum over a New Year’s present!”  
  
            “I’m not going to play this game,” Peeta announces, his eyes hardening. “You know where I stand on this.”  
  
            “You two _always_ team up against me!” she says. “There’s no reason that they had to keep me away from my grandbaby.”  
  
            Peeta sighs through his nose, just subtly enough that no one but me notices. He looks tired. Like it’s nothing new, what his mother is doing. “We aren’t teaming up,” he says.  
  
            “Whatever you call it,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “That Aggie is just so _sweet_ ,” she gushes, after this, about Dylan’s child giving her a card for Grandparent’s Day, which Klaus and Rye obviously ignored just to get to her.  
  
  
            “She does this every time,” he informs me around a sharp breath as we climb the stairs. It seems cruel to make him hike up two flights of stairs to get to his bedroom. That’s where we’re staying. The room that he slept in when he was a child and a teenager. It’s as big as my old house in the Seam, but by the time we reach it, he has to lean against the wall and breathe heavily for a few minutes. “Picks a -- it’s not even like she picks a _favorite_ so much as -- as a least favorite!”  
  
            I want to tell him to just try to breathe, but I’m not sure how he’d react to that, so I just watch. “So she doesn’t like Cordelia?”  
  
            He laughs drily. “So, it’s New Years, right? Rye and Klaus come over -- for dinner, and  so do Dylan and his wife. She says she has presents. And then . . .  she comes out with . . . six boxes.”  
  
            “An extra?” I ask, not following.  
  
            “I wish. One for everyone but Cordelia and two for Aggie.”  
  
            “Why didn’t she give her anything?”  
  
            “Hell if I know,” he says. “No. It was while they were in the process of adopting her, and everything was frozen, with the holidays. So since it wasn’t official, she said -- she didn’t want to get attached to a kid who wasn’t going to stay. And just -- I know you don’t know this yet. But Rye and Klaus wouldn’t let go of that girl. Not for the world,” he says.  
  
            When I offer to get him a glass of water, he shakes his head.  
  
            “ ‘m all right,” he says, sitting down on the end of the massive bed heavily. “There’s a guest room across the hall that no one’s using, Just let me catch my breath and I--”  
  
            “Don’t be stupid,” I say.  
  
            His mouth hangs open in a mixture of shock and protest and I hold my hands up, as if in surrender.  
  
            “I just mean, there’s no need for you to go over there,” I say. “We’ll share the bed.”  
  
            “Katniss,” he begins.  
  
            “No,” I say. “Prim and I shared. Always. You’re already in here. And your stuff’s in here. Just -- stay.”  
  
            I don’t have to ask him twice.  
  


  
             
            Happiness to be in my bed aside, it's like he can't settle. His foot moves around under the covers, as if trying to burrow into the blanket. He keeps shifting from side to side, and then there's the little sighs he keeps letting out. It isn't until I turn over and he stiffens, as if caught, that I realize he's even awake.  
  
            “Sorry,” he says, a nervous lilt to his voice. I shake my head, banking on the fact that he’ll feel the motion even if he can’t see it.  
  
            “It’s that dog, isn’t it?” I ask, and he lets out a shaky breath.  
  
            “Yeah,” he says.  
  
            “I wish I had my bow,” I say. “I’d shoot it in the eye.” He laughs, just loudly enough for it to be surprising in the quiet room.  
  
            “That’s -- very sweet,” he says, as if I’m kidding. But I’m not.  
  
            Before I can help myself, I’m telling him the story of how I escaped a cougar that had me treed, and he’s sitting up and staring over at me, and though I can’t see his face in the darkness, it isn’t hard to imagine the look of awe on his face. The same one I earn every time I so much as tell him about what we had for dinner on Sunday nights during the spring.  
  
            “I’ve taken down scarier things than that dog. You were never in any real danger,” I say, and though I half expect Peeta to laugh again or something, he doesn’t. His hand finds mine under the cover, and though the touch is fleeting, I swear I can feel the warmth of his hand from the squeeze he offers me long after he’s turned back over onto his side.  
  
  
            I can see him through the doorway to the bathroom that’s attached to the room we’ll be sleeping in while we’re here. Can see his face in the mirror, as he towels off his wet hair, but I can also see the angry scar on his back. Teeth marks, I think, though I can’t be sure from this far away. Something bit him, and it tore away a chunk of his skin, which has patched itself together with pink, shining skin. When he tries to set the towel down on the sink, he knocks over a bottle of something and fumbles it with it, catching it before it can shatter on the ground. He’s very careful with it when he sets it back up, and then he takes the towel from the floor and turns, I assume so that he can hang it up.

  
            His hair is still slightly wet. Damp, at least. Enough to fall into his eyes and make him swipe it away with his hands a couple of times before he finally gives up. I’ve lived with Peeta for a month and a half, now, and though I spend every moment that we’re together watching him, I’ve never had the chance to observe him before right now. Has he always been so clumsy? Has he really been being so careful with me all this time?  
  
            I watch as he combs his hair back and holds it down with something that he spreads between his hands before he starts to push his hair back. And then he turns around and grins at me. “Good morning,” he says warmly, shrugging on a black button down shirt that matches the dress pants he’s wearing. “Did you sleep well?”  
  
            I did, actually. “Yes,” I say, watching him as he heads back for the bathroom.  
  
            His mouth is slightly open as he carefully applies something that’s staining his blond lashes black. I’m watching him in the mirror, and he doesn’t see me walking up after he’s started on the second eye. I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, watching as he looks through the bag he packed before we left the house. It’s funny -- dark lashes seem like such a small change, but he looks so different with just this and his hair slicked back. Especially once he begins to snake a thin black line down his cheek with a marker.  
  
            _Tears!_ I realize, more proud of myself than I should be. That’s what it’s supposed to look like, which is in stark contrast with the smile he sends my way when he catches me staring, thinking about how he looks every bit the Capitolite his mother must want him to be.

 

            “I take it you didn’t do this in Twelve?” he asks.  
  
            I shake my head. “No.”  
  


            “Do you want to do your own?” he offers, and I shake my head again, more resolutely this time.

 

            “I was hoping you'd say that,” he says with a grin.  
  
  
            “I’m going to start with the eyeshadow,” he explains, his voice quiet and his breath fanning out onto my cheek. I watch as he gathers some dark powder from a palate with a few different shades, blending two of them together as he gathers them on the pad of his index finger. “All right,” he says softly. “Go ahead and close your eyes,” he suggests.  
  
            I do, leaning back against the sink. His fingertip sweeps over my skin, barely applying any pressure at all. I can feel the form of his finger through my eyelid, where it’s pressed againt the skin. He isn’t breathing.  
  
            “You’re nervous?” I ask, taking a chance and opening the eye he isn’t touching.  
  
            Peeta ducks his head. It’s so strange, seeing a flash of _my_ Peeta on a face that’s been all done up with Capitol makeup.  
  
            My Peeta. What a ridiculous thought.  
  
            “Of course I’m nervous,” he says with a grin. Then he asks me to close my eyes again, and his fingertip sweeps over the other one. My heart is pounding in my chest. His finger swirls around, closer, to my eyebrow. He sighs, just slightly, and then repeats the motion on the other eye.  
  
            “You’ve been to a lot of funerals,” I say in an attempt at joking.  
  
            “Or I had a phase in college,” he says. “The tears part I’ve only done once or twice. But I’m pretty familiar with the rest of it.”  
  
            A surprised little laugh escapes me. He doesn’t look bad with the eye makeup, even before he smeared it. “I wondered if you kept all this around in case someone passed away.”  
  
            He laughs. “No. You know -- I spent so much money on all this that even if I think it’s way too much work, day to day, I wasn’t about to just throw it away.”  
  
            “Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t know. I’ve never worn any sort of makeup before, though I’m sure he’s right, and it’s incredibly expensive  
  
            “It’s the hair I’m not so sure about,” he says. “But I think we can figure something out.”  
  
            His fingers are back on my eyelids, and though I hate myself for it, I find myself relaxing into the touch. “And open,” he says gently. He’s watching me intently when my eyelids spring open, and a satisfied smile blooms on his face. “All right,” he says. “Now, it’s going to look like I’m going to poke you in the eye, but I swear I won’t. Okay?”  
  
            I almost roll my eyes at his protectiveness until I see what he’s wielding. A stick. A _sharp_ stick. It looks almost exactly like a pencil, and though I watched him as he applied it on himself, I still flinch away when he pulls open my bottom eyelid.

 

            “Do you want to go without it?” he asks, letting go of the skin and holding his hand up, as if in surrender.  
  
            “I’m fine,” I say, because I know that this is part of the tradition and that for whatever reason, the traditions are important to Peeta. He dragged me out to buy not one but _four_ black dresses for this thing. They’re all simple -- at least, by Capitol standards. The one I’m wearing today is covered with black lace that ends at my wrists. It’s fitted, and when Peeta saw me in it, he told me that I looked _stunning_.  
  
            All I keep thinking, though, is that the cost of any one of these dresses would keep my family in bread for weeks. Not that Peeta hasn’t spent his money on exactly that, anyway.  
_  
_ He coaches me through it. Tells me when to look up and away, when I can blink. When to stop squirming, please, Katniss, I don’t want to poke you. And then, before I can even see myself in the mirror, he smears the mascara and traces the lines with a black liquid. I think my tears go down further than his. And then he arranges my hair with a couple of awkwardly placed pins, so that it’s away from my eyes. And then he does what I’ve been dreading most all day and adds a black veil to match the dress I’m wearing. I _hate_ the veil. I can’t see clearly through the mesh.  
  
            “Are you ready?” he asks, his hand skimming over his hair. If it was loose, like it usually is, it wouldn’t be any sort of a problem. But it looks like it’s -- _hard_. Which is so at odds with Peeta’s personality that it makes me uncomfortable.  
  
            I bite back an _as I’ll ever be_ and give him a smile. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”  
  
  
             
            Names and faces blur together. Cousins and aunts and uncles, their black clothes in stark contrast to the bright hues they dyed their skin with. I’m swept into hugs and given firm handshakes. Accused of keeping Peeta away so many times that I lose count of how often I force myself to laugh, as if the thought is absurd. Peeta is there to defend me, kidding around about how it’s just the opposite, and did they ever think that maybe he was trying to protect me from them?    
  
            I can’t say that I’m particularly upset when I lose him in the crowd. I’m not particularly bothered by it, even when the blond I spy from behind isn’t Peeta, but another mourning Capitolite. I’m sure that I can handle myself, even if this mansion is big enough that it makes the one the mayor lived in look like it belongs in the Seam.  
  
            I end up in a room off to the side of the one everyone is mingling in. Peeta and I came in here earlier to drop off the first of the gifts that he brought for his mother and father. It’s all been arranged into a neat pyramid atop a lacy tablecloth. I’m just eyeing the intricate lacework when it shifts, and then there’s a little girl trying to dive out from underneath it. But the cloth catches on the pins in her hair, and everything on the table comes crashing to the ground. She reaches up and tugs at the tablecloth. It comes loose, but so do the pins in her hair.  
  
            She can’t be older than five. Big brown eyes absolutely terrified from behind a veil like the one Peeta put on me this morning. She doesn’t seem concerned about the mess on the floor, but her hands are skimming over her hair as she tries to figure out how to fix it.  
  
            “Do you need help?” I ask.  
  
            She looks up at me, her eyes wide and terrified.  
  
            “It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t tell on you.”  
  
            “Tell on her for what?” asks someone behind me. I turn around to see a dark skinned man standing there, looking down at us like he’s particularly amused. His black hair falls in thickened strands down past his shoulders, and his hazel eyes are crinkling kindly at the corners. Not that it helps, him looking nice. All he has to do is ask, “What happened here?” and the girl is bursting into tears -- real ones.  
  
            Before I can respond, the man is on the floor beside us, standing on his knees and gathering the girl up into his arms. He’s got one hand cradling the back of her head, and the other rests on her back, rubbing just slightly. Though he’s being gentle, it does nothing to quiet her hiccuping sobs.  
  
            “‘Delia,” he says. I don’t catch the rest of it -- at least half of the things he murmurs are in another language. But I can make out, “You’re okay,” and “Oh, honey.”  
  
            I should stand and give them space. But I’m working on gathering all of the scattered gifts, and if I’m being honest, I don’t want to leave her alone when I’m afraid that she’ll find herself in trouble with no one to defend her. There’s something so gentle in the way that the man is speaking to her, even if there’s no real substance to it.  
  
            “What’s wrong?” he asks.  
  
            “I -- didn’t -- mean to,” she says, her face pressed to his black shirt. The first half of the next sentence, I don’t understand at all, but I catch the end, “--mad?”  
  
            “I’m not mad,” he says, and it’s a promise. “Sweet girl. It was an accident, right?”  
  
            She nods miserably, her face still buried in his chest.  
  
            “Then what’s there to be mad about?” he asks.  
  
            “And -- and Rye?” she asks.  
  
            “He won’t be mad at you, either,” he assures her.  
  
            “But he --” she begins, and then begins to cough, pulling away and covering her mouth.  
  
            “You think he’ll be angry because he did your hair?” he guesses. “‘Delia, your pa won’t mind. He’s just happy to have someone with such long, pretty hair for him to play with. You know, he can’t do too much with mine.”  
  
            She tries to speak but ends up coughing again. He folds the veil away from her face, wiping at her eyes tenderly. I’m intruding. I try to focus on the gifts I’m picking up and stacking back up on the table, but the man is humming some song that I don’t recognize. When I look back over, he’s moved into a sitting position and she’s climbed up into his lap, her head resting against his shoulder as she takes shuddering breaths.  
  
            “Pa and I don’t care about your hair,” he’s saying.  
  
            “It really was an accident,” I say.  
  
            The man’s eyes land on mine for the first time. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Klaus. Rye’s husband. Thoroughly over this whole thing.”  
  
            “I’m Katniss,” I say. “Peeta’s wife.” I can’t come up with anything clever to mirror the last part of his introduction and come up short. “It’s -- it’s my first Capitol funeral.”  
  
            “You’ll get there,” he jokes, and then looks back down at the girl in his lap. “I see you’ve already met my ‘Delia,” he says. I can’t figure out where the smack of accent is coming from, but it certainly isn’t the Capitol. And his skin isn’t nearly as dark as mine, but even if he isn’t a Mellark by blood, he certainly isn’t from here. “She isn’t used to these big parties, either. That’s why her pa and I--”  
  
            “There you are!”  
  
            It’s a man with skin that’s slightly paler than Peeta’s, the bottom half of his head has been shaved, and the top half, which is long enough to be pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head, is silver. He wears thick, plastic glasses, and there are hoops in his nose and left eyebrow, and a shining jewel just above his cheekbone. He has a beard, though he hasn’t bothered to dye this silver. It’s a darker blonde than Peeta’s hair, slightly reddish.  
  
            “What did you _do_?” he asks, his voice lilting with playful disbelief, and Klaus cuts him a warning glance when she buries her face back in his chest, as if to tell him not to joke about it. The man crouches down beside them, his hand coming out to stroke at her hair, which is now mostly loose.  
  
            “I’m s--so -rry,” she hiccups.  
  
            “What’s there to be sorry for?” he asks. “Cordelia, sweetheart. Look at me.”  
  
            She doesn’t peel her head away from Klaus. The man looks hurt, but just for a moment.  
  
            “Should I fix your hair?” he tries again, his voice still gentle. “I think I remember how to do it.”  
  
            Cordelia doesn’t respond.  
  
            “She thinks you’re mad at her,” says Klaus, and Rye’s eyes go wide.  
  
            “No! Of course not! No! Why--? Honey,” he says. “I’m not mad. Of course I’m not mad. But you can’t just _leave_ like this,” he chides. “When we can’t find you--”  
  
            “Rye!” Klaus hisses.  
  
            “I -- just -- it’s a big house. She could--”  
  
            “She gets it,” Klaus says. “Shit. Why is it so much to ask for you to just once be the fun parent?”  
  
            “Swear jar,” says Rye, flicking his eyebrows up.  
  
            “Ugh. Whatever. Did you meet Katniss?”  
  
            _Rye_ looks up at me, shooting me an exasperated smile. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Rye. Cordelia's pa. My brother is looking everywhere for you,” he says, standing up. “Looks like everyone is sneaking off today,” he says with a sad little smile.  
  
            “I didn’t--!” I begin to protest, but then I realize that Rye has probably heard plenty about me sneaking away last month. “I just lost track of him,” I say.  
  
            “I’m kidding,” the man says, reaching out and touching my arm just briefly before he starts to rearrange some of the gifts. Peeta comes over, frowning down at Cordelia and Klaus.  
  
            “You know how it is,” Rye says softly.  
  
            “Sorry about that,” he says to me. “I always forget how much these Mellarks can talk,” he says, shoulders slumping dramatically. “Hi, Cordelia!” he says. “I brought you something, but we have to ask Pa if you can have it first.”  
  
            This gets her attention. She looks over at Rye eagerly, who smiles in spite of himself. “Yes,” he says. “Whatever your Uncle Peeta is spoiling you with, I’ll allow it.”  
  
            It’s a cupcake. I was with Peeta when he stopped by the bakery before we left because he just had to get something for his nieces. She follows him up the stairs, but I decide to stay behind, because Klaus is watching me, and I think he’s going to say something important. He doesn’t, though. He just flicks up his eyebrows and nods, as if whatever he thinks I’m thinking is right. But how could he know that I’m surprised to realize how good with children the man I’ve married is?  
  
            “She’s lived with us for the last year and only been adopted for the last six months,” Klaus explains. “Cordelia, I mean. And Peeta was the only one who cared enough to get to know her before she got the last name Mellark. So he’s the only one she likes. Well -- looks like you might be the exception to the rule.”  
             
            “She doesn’t like me,” I say, waving my hand dismissively.  
  
            “Yeah, join the club,” Rye jokes, though there’s a real note of upset there. “Anyway, my brother is a total goner.”  
  
            This catches my attention. He laughs when my eyes snap up to him.  
  
            “He went all moony when I mentioned your name,” he says. “Used the word _great_ at least four times when he told me how you were settling in.”  
  
            For some reason, my heart squeezes in my chest. “Oh,” I say, because I have no idea what else to say. “Wow.”  
  
            “That’s what I thought, too,” says Klaus. “He’s happy.” Then, to me, he adds, “I mean, obviously he’s sad about Gramma Mellark. But apart from that . . .”  
  
            “I know. It’s so gross,” says Rye.  
  
            “I’m glad we’re not like that,” Klaus says, tossing me a wink so I know they’re kidding. Even as they kid about my husband being apparently overly affectionate, their fingers are knotted together.  
  
            “Seriously, though, Katniss,” says Rye. “Your husband is one of the good ones. And he didn’t even pay me much to say that.”    
  
  
            “Cordelia is gone,” Rye whispers during the Moment Of Silence, which has stretched on into a solid three minutes of solid wailing from Peeta’s mother with no end in sight. I crack my eyes open, and see that Klaus is looking underneath one of the three long tables that have been set up in what Peeta has informed me is usually one of the sitting rooms. “Have you seen her?”  
  
            We’re both on our feet. “No,” I say, my voice a little too loud. “I’ll help look.”  
  
            Peeta nods, his voice quieter than mine. “I’ll look upstairs. You guys are in your old room, right? Maybe she went up there?”  
  
            Rye looks unconvinced at best. Peeta’s mother’s crying stops suddenly and clears her throat sharply, condemning us for speaking during such an emotional moment.  
  
            “What kind of places does she usually hide?” I ask.  
  
            “I don’t know,” Rye admits, looking pained. “Anywhere. I don’t --”  
  
            “It’ll be okay,” Peeta says. “We’ll find her. Katniss found her earlier and she wasn’t even looking.”  
  
            With that, he ducks out of the room, and I’m quick to follow.  
  
            “She does this, sometimes,” he says, already headed for the stairs. “Gets scared, and just -- takes off.”  
  
            I know the feeling.  
  
            “ _Cordelia?_?” he’s already calling as he starts up the stairs. “ _Are you up here_?”  
  
            The Moment Of Silence ends. The crowd spills out into the main rooms of the house, talking and drinking and laughing, even as Klaus weaves through the crowd, asking if any of them have seen his daughter. He looks so -- scared. Both of them do. Rye takes the stairs two at a time, panic in his voice as he calls for his daughter.  
  
            She must be _somewhere_ nearby, but it doesn’t hit me where _I_ would hide until Mrs. Mellark calls her dog and it comes bounding into the house, and I remember what I was telling Peeta just last night.  
  
            She’s in a tree. Not too far from the ground -- three or four feet, maybe -- with her back settled against the fork in the tree. She’s crying again, or maybe _still_. There are grooves in the sand beneath the tree from where the dog must have reared up and launched itself at the tree.I think of the scar on Peeta’s back. Of the way they had to amputate his leg when he was a child. My heart sinks as I realize -- Cordelia made it to the safety of the tree. Peeta didn’t.    
  
            There’s plenty of room on the branch just above the split, which is about a foot above her. My gown snags on a branch, and my heart stutters in my chest as I think about how I’ll need to explain this to my husband.  
  
            She sniffles, wiping at her nose with the back of her wrist. I rock to redistribute my weight when I reach the branch just above her. She eyes me warily, and I offer her what’s supposed to be a comforting smile.  
  


            “You’re a good tree-climber,” I inform her, my voice lifting an octave, just like it used to when I spoke to Prim when she was little. “I used to climb a lot of trees, too.”  
  
            She gives me a tiny, approving nod.  
  
            “Do you have a tree in your backyard?” I try, and she shakes her head.  
  
            “At the park,” she admits tremulously. “K--Klaus helps me.”  
  
            “My dad taught me how to climb trees, too,” I say. “Klaus and Rye are worried about you. Wanna go back inside?”  
  
            She closes her eyes tightly, as if not wanting to hear this. “They'll be mad.”

 

            I hum. “I don't think so.”

 

            “Rye -- Rye said not to run away again.”

 

            “He just wants to make sure you're safe,” I say. “Rye is just scared.” She won’t look at me-- she’s so focused on the hem of her skirt. I know it’s not the skirt she’s looking at, though. She’s got this look on her face, like she’s a thousand miles away. I don’t want to think about how someone as young as she is could feel all the things that makes someone wear that expression, so instead I scoot a little closer to her.

 

            “You know,” I say. “I fought off dogs much scarier than Grandma Mellark’s.”

 

            She looks up at me quickly, skirt forgotten, and her little lips purse together. She’s been chewing them- I can tell because she’s got a little cut right in the middle of her bottom lip. She needs some salve for it- it must hurt.

 

            “What dogs?”

 

            I sit up a little straighter.

 

            “I’m not from the Capitol,” I say. “Where I’m from, wild dogs are always chasing people. You know what we do?”

 

            She shakes her head.

 

            “We stomp our feet and tell them to shoo.”

 

            “But-!” she blurts, and then, a little softer- “Aren’t you scared?”

 

            I pause.

 

            “Of course we are,” I say. “Fear is- Fear is good. It’s smart to be afraid, sometimes. Fear protects us. But only if you know the dogs are as mean as they are scary. And lots of dogs-”

 

            I reach up and straighten my veil over my face, raising my chin a little.

 

            “-Lots of dogs are more afraid of us than we are of them.”

 

            Cordelia chews contemplatively on the skin around the nail of her index finger, staring at me with wide eyes.

 

            “What  is Rye is afraid of?” she whispers.

 

            “When you care about someone, you want them to be safe. When you think they’re not, it’s scary.”

 

            She sniffs, and I’m thinking of another Mellark. Of how relieved Peeta was to find me, tracker or none -- I’ve been thinking all this time that he was angry but he got over it when he realized that I wasn’t leaving for good. That he called his brother and the assistant at the bakery who wrapped me up into a hug when she met me, and that he told them what I had done and how they shouldn’t trust me.  
  
            But he didn’t. He was -- just happy that he found me.  
  
  
            “But-- the dog,” she whispers. “What if it comes back?”

 

            For the second time, I wish I had my bow and arrows.

 

            “I’m bigger than that old dog,” I huff, and then I grin. “And one day, you will be too. In the meantime, hold my hand when we walk back and he’ll leave you alone.”

  
            I climb down, first, not wanting to risk the dog finding us again and attacking her before I can reach the ground. She drops from a few feet above the ground, crouching down and then wiping her hands on her dress. It’s still covered in dirt when she extends it towards me, eyes on my face, but I’ve had worse.  
  
            “Are you ready?” I ask.  
  
  
            She is still for a moment, and then shakes her head.  
  
  
            I crouch down in front of her.  
 

            “The truth is,” I say. “Sometimes I’m afraid too. Everybody gets afraid. But just like I know I’m bigger than that dog, I also know that Rye and Klaus just want you to be safe.”  
 

            Movement over her shoulder catches my eye. It’s Peeta, in the window of the house. He’s pointing us out to Rye, who looks relieved. I catch his eye and wave, and my heart squeezes gently in my chest.  
 

            “How do you know?” Cordelia asks.  
  


            “Because Rye and Klaus love you,” I say. “That’s how.”  
           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh lord. This chapter was originally just straight fluff at Peeta's bakery. Which I promise will come eventually.  
> I gotta thank Greenwool for all the hand-holding this chapter: for helping me by writing the last scene out, for breaking my writer's block by suggesting I kill someone, for being a generally wonderful beta. Thank you to Gentlemama, for fielding countless texts, screenshots, and helping me to write Cordelia as the right age. (This was originally published with her name as Ophelia and retconned later, when I changed my name to Ophelia)
> 
> And for some notes! Klaus and Cordelia are from District Four -- New Orleans. They are Creole. The things Katniss doesn't understand? Are being spoken in French, she's not just unobservant. Hit me up on Tumblr if you wanna have as big a crush on Klaus as I do, I'll hook you up with my faceclaim for him -- I'm knittingkatniss in those parts.


	6. owed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in Peeta's POV :)

            It’s like something from an old movie. The rest of the room fuzzes at the edges, fades away to black and white. And there she is. Huddled around the end of the table with Klaus. Even obstructed by the black lace of the veil I had to buy for her for the funeral, her smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life -- so incredibly rare that even after living with her for over two months, my breath leaves me in a rush at the sight of it. It’s almost nothing. Just a little twist of her lips as she leans forward and tickles at my -- her, _our_ \-- niece’s sides. Whatever my brother is saying -- some complaint about how, when tasked to pick up a nice dessert for the Feast, his husband decided to bring home chocolate mice, to their daughter’s delight -- it’s lost during a shrieking fit of laughter. Klaus says something, and then I see just a flash of Katniss’s teeth as she laughs.   

 

            For an awful moment, I’m jealous of my brother in law. And though I feel guilty for the thought as soon as I have it, I’m wondering why she likes him so much better than she likes me. What has Klaus done to make her so comfortable with him? What did he say that made her laugh? Her smiling at Cordelia was one thing -- I can’t very well be jealous of a four year old. But Klaus . . . he’s known her for all of two days, and she’s already managed to grace him with smiles and laughter. With everything that I work so hard for. I remember when Rye started to fall in love with him. He had dated plenty of people -- boys and girls and people who identified somewhere in-between, but Klaus was the only one he really gushed over. _He’s so funny. He’s so kind, Peeta._  
  
            Those are the things I’m supposed to be able to hold my own against. _At least he’s gay_ , I think, and my lips twist up into a smile, because Rye is right. Klaus is kind. And he’s in love with my brother. But he’s always been the sort of man to make you think twice about what you have going on, even when your wife isn’t resting her elbows on the table, listening eagerly to whatever he has to say.  
  
            She listens to what I have to say, too. Of course, she listens to what I have to say. But not like this. She doesn’t interrupt me and laugh. She just watches me, her eyes wide, and waits until she’s absolutely certain that I’m done rambling before she bobs her head in agreement and says something that’s ultimately meaningless, like _I know what you mean_ , or _is that so?_  
  
            Rye clears his throat, getting my attention. “This is bullshit,” he jokes.  
  
            “She needed a friend,” I say, and I’m not sure if I mean Katniss or Cordelia.  
  
            “She’s great with kids,” says Rye, nudging me with his elbow. It dawns on me that this is something I ought to know about her, but I don’t. Of course, I don’t. I don’t know anything about her. I don’t even know her favorite color, and I can just picture the disbelieving look she’d throw me if I asked. But she wouldn’t roll her eyes at me, like she did to Klaus. She wouldn’t dare.  
  
            “She’s great,” I say, and I don’t realize that I’ve let another sigh escape me until Rye shoves me. It knocks me slightly off balance and I glare at him.  
  
            “You’re such a fucking goner,” he says. “Listen -- listen,” he says, and then he heaves out a heavy sigh. “ _She’s great_ ,” he says, his voice lilting a little in what’s supposed to be an imitation of me.  
  
            “Oh, shut up,” I say, but there’s no real venom in my voice. “I listened to you sigh over Klaus for _years_.”  
  
            “But I--”  
  
            “ _I want to have his babies, Peeta,_ ” I say, lowering my voice to mimic his.  
  
            “Yeah, but--”  
  
            _“Klaus wants to cut his hair and I need to figure out how to sabotage his appointment ,”_ I say. _“Have you looked at his hair, Peeta? I mean, really looked at it. If--_ ”  
  
            “Shut the fuck up,” he says, but he’s laughing. “I don’t sound like that.”  
  
            “You sound worse,” I assure him.  
  
            “Well, at least he knew that I had a crush on him,” he says, chin lifting, like he’s so superior. “You haven’t even told Katniss, have you?”  
  
            “Have I told my wife that I _have a crush_ on her?” I ask. “I think it’s kind of implied.”  
  
            Across the room, Katniss’s eyes land on me. I watch as she straightens a little in her seat and offer her a small wave. She seems to be startled to have been caught, but raises her hand in return. The smile she gives me is so forced. So unlike the smiles Klaus and Cordelia have earned. It’s like being punched in the stomach.  
  
            “She doesn’t know,” Rye says. “I think she thinks--”  
  
            “She knows,” says my mother, and I would gloat if I didn’t know that it would mean something awful was coming, if she’s decided to grace us with her presence when she’d usually prefer to be crying over Grandma Mellark, surrounded by a dozen of her favorite friends. “She just doesn’t care.”  
  
            “Mom,” Rye says. He’s got this voice he uses just for her -- it’s soft, something between exhaustion and warning, like he’s not sure which will work, but he hopes something will convince her to stay quiet. It never does.  
  
            “I’ve seen the way she looks at him!” Mom says. “It’s like he’s nothing at all. Which . . . to her . . .”  
  
            “No, she doesn’t,” I say, even though I want to ask what she means. What she’s seen. I know that everyone has been watching us since we showed up at the party. What have they been saying?  
  
            “You know what?” she asks, looking at Rye instead of me. “I warned him. But did he listen to me? Does he _ever_ listen to me? No.”  
  
            “What did you warn me about?” I ask, and it’s my turn for a gentle protest from my brother.  
             
            “Peet,” he says, and I hold up one hand.  
  
            “No. What did you warn me about, Mom?” I ask. “I don’t remember you warning me. I remember you saying I was fucking stupid--”  
  
            “I said you were _being_ fucking stupid!” she says, her voice raising, like it does any time I call her on shit like this. “That’s not the same thing. You _know_ I don’t think you’re stupid. I’ve always said how smart you are!”  
  
            “You said I was _being_ fucking stupid,” I concede. “But I didn’t come to you for advice, Mom.”  
             
            “No. Because you think you can do everything on your own. You’ve always been so naive,” she says.  
  
            “I’m not _naive_ ,” I say.  
  
            “You spent, I don’t even want to know how much money on this girl who doesn’t even spare you a glance. You could have done so well, Peeta. Could have married some nice girl from here. Passed on your beautiful blonde hair.”  
  
            Rye makes a small noise of protest, but my mother doesn’t respond to him.  
  
            “It isn’t too late to back out, you know,” says my mother. “Send her back to Eleven.”  
  
            “Twelve,” I correct. “And I’m not sending her anywhere.” I promised I wouldn’t. Not that Mom needs to know that.  
  
            “I know you’re stubborn,” she says. “But look. This girl isn’t here to be your wife. You and I both know it. Hell, everyone can see it. Your cousin and I were talking. If you return her within the first couple of months, you can even get some of your money back. I mean, especially if you can prove that she never _really_ wanted to marry you.”  
  
            “She’s my wife,” I say. “I don’t know what you think everyone is seeing.”  
  
            “She doesn’t even _look_ at you,” my mother says. “She’s barely left your brother-in-law’s side this whole time. She doesn’t even try to be subtle about it.”  
  
            “He’s gay!” I say. “And married!”  
  
            “Does it matter?” she asks. “You’re newlyweds! She should only have eyes for you! But here she is--”  
  
            “Mom,” I say when her voice begins to raise.  
  
            “You have your whole life ahead of you!” she says. “You own a bakery! You bought a house! And you’re throwing it all away--”  
  
            “Mom!” I say again, because people are starting to look at us. The good news is, she’s right about Katniss not looking at me.  
  
            “She’s _using_ you, Peeta!” She’s in near hysterics, now. “She’s playing you for a fool and you’re going to end up getting hurt, because you’re too stubborn to see that she’s just a--”  
  
            _“MOM!”_  
             
            It’s quiet for a beat. I watch the shock as it settles over her face. I have never raised my voice to her in my life, and it’s clear that she doesn’t know what to do with herself. So she settles for a look of betrayal. And then takes a step closer to me. The heels she’s wearing today are high enough for her to tower over me. I take a step back automatically and hate myself for it.  
  
            “You’ll come crying to me later,” she says. “Tell me how I was right. How she’s never, not for one moment, wanted you at all. How you were being a fool. But then it’ll be too late. You’ll have knocked her up by then, and you won’t be able to back out.”

 

My nostrils flare. In the now silent room, I can hear my heavy breaths. Katniss may not have been looking at me before, but she certainly is now. Her back goes stick straight as I approach her, and I swallow hard.  
  
            “Hey,” I say, and she flinches when my voice is still a little sharp around the edges. I work to soften it as best I can. “What do you say we get outta here?”

 

            It’s like I’ve asked her permission to drown her sister’s cat. Her eyes are locked on me as she stands, stiff as a board. I watch as she wipes her palms roughly on the skirt of her dress, and then reaches for mine. Her hand is trembling, and I give her what I hope is a reassuring squeeze. It doesn’t seem to help.  
  
  
            “Go ahead and take it off,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot, as if she’s fidgeting with the veil because it’s bothering her, and not because she’s nervous. “Who cares, right?”  
  
            She thinks that the smile she gives me is convincing, but it’s a grimace. “We’re leaving?” she asks.              

 

            “I can’t stay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”  
  
            “That’s okay,” she says. “I don’t mind leaving.” She unpins the veil and folds it into a small square that she twists in her lap.  
  
            “I didn’t figure you would,” I joke. “You’ve probably been bored out of your mind this week.”  
  
            “No! I’m -- I wasn’t,” she says, and when her voice shakes, my hands tighten on the wheel. She’s not nervous. She’s not embarrassed by what my mother said about her. She’s _terrified._  
  
            That’s the difference between my situation and hers. I can forget she’s afraid. She can’t.  
  
            _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , I want to say, but I know it won’t do any good to interrupt her. She wets her lips before she speaks.  
  
            “Your mother was wrong,” she says. “And -- I’m sorry.”

 

            “You took my line,” I say, pulling into my parents’ driveway. That’s the good thing about everyone being at the dining hall. We can get in and out. “Do you wanna get out of that dress?” I offer.  
  


 

            I wish I could say that I didn’t know what I expected. That I didn’t hope at least a little bit that her eyes would light up when I knocked on her door, or some string music would start playing when we met. It’s not that I regret ordering her -- not by any means. Someone else would have snatched her up if I hadn’t, and I don’t even want to think about where she might be if I had let that happen. I let her head up the stairs in front of me, and watch the golden ring on her left hand as it slides up the railing.  
  
            I think I watched too many movies.

 

            Didn’t I hope for the same thing my mother did? That she’d want to watch me in a crowded room the same way I watch her? I hadn’t realized until she ran away what a fucking idiot that made me. That the look in her eyes that had made my heart stop in the chest wasn’t her flirting with the camera. It was burning, deadly distrust, and it was aimed at me before she ever knew who I was. She offers me a strained smile and pulls some clothes out of her suitcase, disappearing into the bathroom. I scrub my hand over my forehead, willing myself to pull it the fuck together.  
  
            “Can you help me?”  
  
            Her voice is muffled. The door opens and she turns around, sweeping her hair out of the way so that I can see, and yanking hard at the zipper on the back of her dress. It doesn’t budge.  
  
            “Hold on,” I say. “The material got caught in the teeth when I zipped it.”  
  
            She nods, standing dutifully still as I work at the zipper. I’m at a better angle for it, I think. I can hear her breaths as she waits for me to finish, and I try to hurry, but I’m so transfixed by the way the light catches on the dark skin of her back as I pull it down.  
  
            “All finished,” I say, taking a step back. She tosses me a grateful nod over her shoulder, whispering a _thank you_ and hustling into the bathroom with the front of the dress pulled up to her throat, just in case. I’ve just finished shoving the dress she wore yesterday back into her suitcase when the door creaks open again. She must have changed in record time. She’s got on this shirt that came with her from District Twelve -- it’s a soft red plaid flannel. The kind you have a hard time finding here. And pants. She never wore pants until the day she ran away, and now that I knew how she looks in them, it was hard to make her wear something so . . . shapeless.

 

            “I think I ruined your mother’s washcloth,” she admits tremulously, holding up the thing like it’s a white flag. It’s definitely stained, but I can’t possibly bring myself to care. I step forward, offer her the best smile I can manage, and wipe away the last fleck of eyeliner on her cheek. She holds her breath while I do, eyes on my feet, and then I scrub the rag across my face, too. Fuck this. Fuck all of it.

  


Katniss still won’t look at me. The toes of her shoes dig at the mulch in the ground, and I realize with a little smile that she has no idea how expensive they were. I don’t care, exactly. I watch as she begins to pick at her cuticle and clear my throat before she has the chance to start drawing blood in the name of having something to do with her hands.

             
            _Fuck._

 

She’s beautiful.

 

            Her silver eyes are distrustful, as usual, but as striking as they were in the catalogue I found her in. “I used to run away, too,” I say, nodding towards the slides in front of us. “Like Cordelia. Like you.”  
  
            She flinches, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. “I wasn’t --” she cuts herself off, eyes dropping again. “I wasn’t running away,” she says quietly, like she doesn’t quite believe it herself.  
  
            “I know,” I say, watching as she scrapes the dirt from the top of one shoe with the bottom of the other. “But this is where I came when I needed to get away, like you did. Obviously I still come here,” I joke, but don’t earn myself so much as a pity smile. That’s the good thing about Katniss, I guess. Even confronted with my leg, she doesn’t seem to pity me. “I just thought -- when Cordelia left, the other day . . . She’s terrified. You know? And why shouldn’t she be? Some Capitolite knocks on your door and takes you away from the only home you’ve ever known. Drags you off to the Capitol--”  
  
            “I’m not -- I’m not _afraid_ of you,” she says, and I might even believe her if her voice didn’t break, and her eyes didn’t widen when it did.  
  
            Everything in me wants to argue. Because it’s not that she doesn’t _like_ me, like my mother insisted. It’s that she has every reason to be terrified of me. It’s because Seneca Crane has murdered two brides in as many years and just ordered a third, and no one did a thing to stop him. It’s because --  
  
            I could give her all the reasons she should be afraid of me, but I don’t. I’d just be scaring her. Scaring her more than I already have.

 

            “Good. But I was talking about Cordelia,” I say instead, and miracle of miracles, earn myself a little smile. This one is even better than the one earlier -- the one that was for Cordelia and not me. Now that I’m up close, I can see the way the skin around her eyes crinkles. The way her silver eyes glimmer. Can hear the laugh she huffs out through her nose, really just a breath.  
  
            “How old were you?” she asks. “When you ran away?”  
  
            “Twenty three,” I say, managing to school my features until she smiles again, but just barely. “I was -- I don’t know. Nine or so,” I say. It was back before Rye moved out, but I certainly didn’t _stop_ coming here when there was no one there to even try to defend me. “I never meant to stay away, either. Not that that kept me out of trouble when I showed back up at the house.”

 

            “Thank you,” she says. “For not punishing me. I . . .”  
  
            “That’s not the point I’m making,” I say, reaching over and nudging her knee with the back of my hand. “And even before that, I’d find little crevices around the house. Like, hide under my bed, or in a closet. I couldn’t climb a tree, or anything, obviously. But I still come out here when I need to think, sometimes.”    
  
            She nods, looking anywhere but at me. I wonder if I should tell her that I was sitting in the very same swing when I decided that I should go ahead and order her, but decide against it. She looks so unsure already, and it would be so easy to knock her off balance if I said the wrong thing.  
  
            “Do you want to have something different for dinner tonight?” I ask.  
  
            This catches her attention.  
  
            I mean to tell her about how Rye and I used to hide out at the pizza place on Third during Mom’s rampages. Want to point out the booth in the middle of the row, the one with the cracked red vinyl seat, and I want to tell her that that’s where I used to sit. I want to tell her how I haven’t been here for years. How it hasn’t changed since the last time I was here for pizza. I want to ask her if she’s ever eaten pizza before.  
  
            It hits me all at once how stupid this is. She’s never had pizza before. Somehow, I don’t think it’s particularly common where she’s from. And she doesn’t _care_ that Rye and I used hang out here when we couldn’t go home. Why should she? I motion for her to pick our seats, and she does. A booth in the very back in the restaurant. She sits with her back closest to the wall, and I slide in across from her. I slide one of the menus towards her and she gives me a stiff, grateful nod. What was it my mother said? That she’s not here to be my wife? She isn’t wrong. I asked Katniss not to worry about being wife the day she left. Told her to just be Katniss. But she hasn’t done that, either, if the glances I’ve caught of her these last few days -- her climbing trees, and telling jokes, and laughing -- are any indication.  
  
            “Do you like pineapple?” I ask. “Rye really likes it on his pizza. It’s kind of a weird combination, I guess. But he always outvoted me, so I got used to it.”  
  
            “I . . .” she begins, and then trails off, blushing furiously. “I’ve never had it.”  
  
            Oh. “Do you want to try it?” I ask. “How about -- if you want -- we’ll order a pizza with everything on it, and I’ll help you pick off anything you hate?”  
  
            This smile is different from the others -- grateful, relieved, meant for me, and absolutely fucking glorious. “Okay,” she says quietly, studying the menu, and when the waiter comes by, she rattles off a list of toppings a mile long, and then I get smile number _three_ , which is so shy that my heart hammers in my chest long after it’s gone. _Fucking goner_ , I hear Rye saying in my head. He’s not wrong.

 

            They serve good pizza -- I wouldn’t bring her here for her first slice if it had soggy wet crust, like some of the places in the city. It’s too hot for me when we get it, and I try to warn Katniss, but she picks up her slice as soon as I lay it on her plate. I try to pretend like my eyes aren’t on her as she tries it, but this feels like it could potentially be a huge moment that I’m witnessing. She takes a small bite, testing it out, and a string of cheese trails from the slice to her lips. She looks -- confused, almost. And then she tugs the slice away so the connection breaks, and sweeps it into her mouth with her tongue. She chews it thoughtfully for a moment, and then takes another bite. The cheese stretches again -- because she pulls it away so slowly, I think, but I don’t mind, because if I thought the smile she gave me on the swings was a miracle, the little laugh that escapes her is something else entirely. More a hum than anything. Not for my benefit at all -- she hasn’t even noticed that I’m watching her. I pick up my slice, just so I have plausible deniability, and begin to pick the pineapple off of it.  
  
            “ ‘s good,” she says, holding a hand up to cover her mouth. “Really good. _Thank you_.”  
  
            “I can make it at home, but it’s not this good,” I say. “I need a pizza oven.”  
  
            “Everything you make is good,” she says fiercely.

 

            I mean to joke that it’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to me, but somehow that doesn’t seem funny.  
  


 

            She shivers a little, the end of the little plastic spoon rattling in her mouth as she chews on it pensively. The guy behind the counter shoots me an exasperated look, like like I ought to hurry her along. I want to tell him that she’s never had ice cream before. That we can’t rush her. “I like the first one,” she finally says, a little apologetically. Working in food service, I can understand the guy’s frustration -- she tried five flavors after that first one. But it’s not like we’re not buying anything, and it’s not like I wasn’t always gonna give him a good tip. He serves her bowl up silently, and then raises his eyebrows at me.  
  
            I’m afraid Katniss thinks I must be very boring, ordering plain strawberry after she just tried all the strangest flavors she could find. But she doesn’t even spare me a glance as I pay and grab some napkins from the dispenser on the counter. We walk outside, and she still refuses to look at me. I can’t very well blame her for it, liking Klaus better than she likes me. She doesn’t have to go home with Klaus. She doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life trying to work out whether or not she can trust him. More than that -- Klaus knows better than I ever could what it’s like to live in one of the districts. What it’s like to marry a Mellark. What it’s like to marry a Capitolite. I want to ask if she’d like to invite them over sometime, but the words are stolen from me when my breath catches in my throat.  
  
            She’s _hugging_ me. It’s a one armed thing -- she’s still clutching her ice cream. But her other hand wraps around my back. I nearly drop my dessert in my haste to hold her. Her face presses against my shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of her, even though she’s so _small_ , even smaller in my arms than I guess I realized she would be. Katniss. In my arms. I want desperately to ask what this is for. What I possibly did at any point in my life to earn this. But I think if I speak, I’ll startle her away from me, and that’s the last thing I would ever want to do.  
  
            “Thanks,” she finally mumbles, her cheeks ruddy when she steps away.  
  
            “For what?” I ask breathlessly.  
  
            Her mouth opens and then snaps closed. Her eyes search mine, but I don’t know what she’s looking for. I hope she finds it. “I never--” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I never knew anyone could be this good to me.”  
  
            A small, pained noise escapes me, but she doesn’t wait to hear it. Instead, she stakes her claim on a table out in front of the shop, dragging her spoon through the ice cream in her bowl. I want to tell her that she is owed everything I’ve given her. That she deserves more than she got, as far as husbands go.  
  
            “Remember, you’re married to me, now,” I say instead, aiming for casual and missing it terribly. “We can have ice cream any time you feel like it.”  
  
            She huffs out a breathy laugh. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to Gentlemama, Greenwool, and Wistfulweaverwoman, and to my readers! I'm on tumblr at KnittingKatniss, and I post a lot about my chapters as I write lol. What do we think of Peeta's POV? This guy is so easy to write!


	7. support group

            Peeta circles the parking lot three times before he finds a parking spot close enough to pull into. Once the car has gone silent, I notice the way he’s watching me.  
  
            “Like the first day of school,” he jokes, reaching over and nudging my arm with the back of his hand. There’s an anxious smile on his face, and the look in his eyes -- it’s like he’s just begging me to return it. “I should have packed you a lunch.”  
  
            “We could just go home,” I say, and the smile drops from his face. “I’ll make lunch,” I offer.  
  
            He blinks slowly, considering this. “Katniss,” he begins, and I force myself to laugh, just to set him at ease. I know what this is. This support group. He was so proud of himself when he found out about the group. Admitted, very shyly, that he was reading up on how to help me adjust to living here.  
  
            He had hurried to assure me, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, that I’ve been doing well. But that with how quickly I was able to make friends with Klaus and Cordelia, he figured I could probably use a friend I could see a little more often -- not that we couldn’t have Klaus and Cordelia over any time I wanted! But I must miss home, right? Must miss my friends? It’s okay -- he doesn’t take it personally. Anyone would, he said. He’s even sorry that he hasn’t made a point of this earlier.  
  
            Kind lies aside, I know why I’m here, and it’s not to make friends. Why else would you want to gather up a bunch of brides and have them talk about their lives? What could you possibly be trying to accomplish if it’s not just to root out the troublemakers? Anything I say in there will make it back to Peeta. Maybe he’ll come into the room with me. He has to come into the building to help me get checked in, and he never did tell me what he plans to do while the meeting is in session. He took off in the middle of work just so that he could drive me here on his lunch break. I can’t imagine why he would do that if there’s not something in it for him. Why else would he be so excited?  
  
            As we walk into the office, every muscle in my body tenses. Peeta must notice, because he stretches his arm out around my shoulders and uses it to steer me further into the office. There’s no turning back. No convincing him of what an awful idea this is. He even has the gall to give me a smile that looks almost -- encouraging.  
  
            Have I not been good enough? Have I not proved to him that I won’t really leave? A couple weeks ago, when he brought me to his park, to the place he used to run away to, I thought that meant that he had forgiven me for leaving. And maybe he has, but he certainly doesn’t trust me. Maybe he just needs me to sit quietly, so that he can hear that there wasn’t a whiff of rebellion coming from my mouth, even if I was asked.  
  
            “Hi,” he says to the woman behind the counter. “This is Katniss Mellark. She’s here for the support group.”  
  
            The woman glances up at me, just for a moment, and then motions towards the closed door. Peeta gives me another one of those hopeful smiles, settling into one of the chairs in the waiting room. He’ll make me do this alone, then. Leave me to prove myself when he isn’t even around. There’s a piece of paper that’s been torn from a notebook with _BRIDES ONLY_ scrawled on it, horizontal across the diagonal lines. The door creaks as I push it open, and the hushed conversation stops. I glance around the room. There are ten or so women, sitting in a loose half circle around a stuffed armchair. In the armchair is a man who looks sort of rumpled, wearing a stained white shirt and a beard that isn’t quite grown out enough to look like it’s on purpose. None of the brides seem to be faring much better. One of them clears her throat, and then continues very softly as I close the door behind me. “Does that make sense?” she asks, and she’s met with a sea of approving murmurs.  
  
            “Have a seat, sweetheart,” the man in the armchair says, and I take a seat beside a squirming girl who looks so much like Prim that my stomach clenches painfully at the thought of her winding up someplace like this. There’s a fading bruise across the bridge of her crooked nose. I eye the door. _Prim is safe_ , I think, trying desperately to remind myself of as much. Peeta paid enough money for me that she’ll never wind up desperate enough to put her face in the catalogue. She’s fine. She’ll be fine. She won’t end up here. She’ll never be forced to marry some strange Capitol man to feed her family. She’ll never have to sit in a cold metal chair surrounded by exhausted looking women. Just a glance around the semicircle that’s formed around the man shows a myriad of expressions. Tired. Nervous. Defiant. Scared. Relieved. Prim’s lookalike even manages a shaky smile at something that the woman beside her says.  
  
            Before the group starts back up in earnest, Haymitch asks me my name. The room echoes back a “ _hi, Katniss_ ,” in a monotone. I wonder if Peeta can hear it. If this counts as making friends. There’s another piece of paper taped to the wall by the door. The rules of the group seem to be fairly straightforward -- in fact, all he’s written is **_WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN!_** This has been underlined. Three times. I do wait my turn. I listen as each of the brides introduces themselves for my benefit. Prim’s lookalike is named Elise. When Haymitch asks how Elise feels today, she takes a careful breath. I’ve seen women like her before, around my mother’s table, asking quietly for carrot seeds. The sort of women who are afraid to take up more space than they feel they have the right to. She chews at her lip, and it comes away bloody when she finally releases it. I flinch when she scrubs at it with the back of her pale hand, staining the skin with red.  
  
            “I feel--” she begins, but then cuts herself off, as if noticing the blood on her hand. “I feel _lost_ ,” she breathes. It’s a quiet admission, but it’s as though are a million other words beneath it. Things she won’t say. Things she can’t say. Things she fears more than death itself. “Like -- like . . .” she stammers, looking to the other women for help. Her eyes even land on me for a moment. But I have no words to offer. Nothing that could possibly ease her pain.  
  
            It’s a struggle, trying to take deep enough breaths not to completely float away. Conversation is made around me -- voices rising slightly. Overlapping and blurring at the edges, and blending together in my mind from one scared, lonely girl to the next. I’m aware of the seat below me, the coolness of the metal. The way that it saps the heat from the bottoms of my thighs. I’m next, and every eye in the room is on me.  
  
            “How about you?” he asks.    
  
            “What?” I ask. What am I supposed to say? After everything I just heard, what am I possibly supposed to say? And even if I did have stories to tell, why should I share them? These people are strangers. No -- worse than that -- they could all potentially be spies for the Capitol, looking to sniff out any hint of a rebellious wife. I think of my trip to the beach and firmly press my lips together.  
  
            Haymitch looks irritated. There’s something about the way that he leans forward that sets the girl to my right on edge. Something that must be too familiar, too sensitive, for her comfort. “Your husband,” he repeats, an edge to his voice, as if he’s speaking to someone very stupid. “What did your husband do this week?”  
  
            I have to work to unclench my jaw. “I -- my _husband_?”  
  
            The word leaves me like it’s filthy. Like I’m talking about something unspeakably ugly. All of the women in this room have _husbands_. Unkind, selfish, horrible men. So awful that they couldn’t convince anyone who actually met them in person to spend the rest of their lives with them. So terrible that they had to pay more money than any of us would ever have seen in our lives just to have a mate. Every girl in this room knows what it’s like to be hungry. To be desperate. And where did that land them? Certainly not anywhere safe.  
  
            “Yes,” he says, his eyes rolling. “Your husband. I assume you’re not here for the food.”  
  
            My mouth opens and closes.  
  
            “It’s okay,” says Elise, her voice quaking.  
  
            My head snaps over to look at her, and even with the look on her face -- the tiredness that has settled into every line -- she manages what I’m sure is supposed to be an encouraging smile.  
  
            “It’s all right,” she says again, and it’s as if she’s saying it to herself.  
  
            “No, it isn’t,” I say, and my voice is sharp enough to make her flinch.  
  
            “Sweetheart,” the man says, chiding, and I take another one of those deep breaths that isn’t doing any good to tether me to the ground.  
  
            “I--” I stammer, because none of this is okay. Of course it isn’t. “But-!”  
  
            Her bottom lip trembles, and I can’t bear it. Can’t stand to see the look on her face. Just like I couldn’t stand to be around the women who came to my mother’s house. This isn’t okay. Nothing about this could possibly be considered _all right_. The legs of my chair screech against the floor.  
  
  
            To say that Peeta is surprised when the door slams open and then shut behind me is an understatement. He stands up automatically, pocketing his phone. “Katniss?” he asks softly. “What’s--?” he stops himself. Takes a step towards me. “Are you all right?” he asks.    
  
            “I won’t go back,” I bite, my voice tight. I can’t see them again, all the faces that could be mine. Bruised, tired, anxious, defeated. All the fight leaks out of me. I can’t save them. I can’t do anything. I’m just a bride, just like they are, and if they could be saved wouldn’t they have already tried to save themselves? I know how the Capitol treats the brides from the Districts. Seneca Crane taught me everything I need to know about that. So I can’t afford to go back there, because if I do, there’s no way I could walk out without doing something that could get me killed. Or, worse, get me sent home, leaving Prim desperate enough to wind up in the same situation I’ve found myself in. He wanted to see if I would challenge him? We don’t need someone to be a go-between for us. “I won’t,” I say again, raising my chin. And then -- “You can’t make me.”  
  
            He looks mystified. “Katniss,” he says carefully, and I wait. He can tell me to go back in, but I won’t. “Of course I’m not going to try to make you.”  
  
            _Try_. As if he couldn’t, even if he really wanted to. As if doesn’t have nearly two feet and a lifetime worth of having enough to eat on me. As if he couldn’t just toss me over his shoulder and make me go anywhere he wanted to. As if he doesn’t have that right, just by being my husband.  
  
            “Are you all right?” he asks again, and it’s as if the answer to this question is crucial, somehow.  
  
            Whatever he wanted to accomplish, sending me to this meeting, this wasn’t it. He didn’t want to figure out whether I could be trusted. He didn’t want to scare me. To show me how awful he could be. That’s something that one of the other husbands -- _any_ of the other husbands! Might have done to their wives. By law, Peeta is my husband. He owns me, practically. Gets to decide if I work. If I ever see my family again. Where I sleep. But he’s nothing like those other men. He’s -- he’s just -- he’s kind. And he’s honest. And I don’t think he’s ever in his life set out to hurt anyone. Least of all me. How could I tell him? How could I tell him that I’m not all right? How could I possibly tell him all the awful things I thought about him just a moment ago? All the awful things those other husbands are capable of?    
  
            I don’t know what Peeta is. But he’s not the enemy. He’s just -- Peeta. My husband. My kind, gentle, considerate husband. Who comforts me when I’m upset even when he doesn’t know why I’m looking at him like he’s just burned down my house. He takes another step towards me, but slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, and for some reason, the way he’s watching me is physically painful.  
  
            “Hey,” he whispers, and I want so desperately for him to take the next two steps that separate us. Want him to tell me that it’ll be all right. I’m not sure why that should count for anything, but I want it so badly that it aches in my chest. Only, he won’t come any closer. Not until I tell him he can. I don’t know how to tell him he can. I’ve never been good with words. There are a thousand reasons why I should be able to talk myself out of it, but I don’t even try.

 

            I take the two steps that separate us and hook my arms under his, pressing the side of my face against his chest. It’s the second time I’ve done this -- taken him completely by surprise. He doesn’t seem to mind -- of _course_ he doesn’t seem to mind. But now that I’ve gone and done it, every little thing threatens to send me into his arms. All his breath leaves him in a rush, half a content sigh and half a gasp. I can feel the hesitance in the press of his forearms against my back. As if he doesn’t know whether he ought to hold me tighter or let go of me completely, and leave me clinging to him. I make the decision for him. Whisper his name and slump against him. And then he’s holding me in earnest, his head dropping down so that his chin can press at the top of my head. He hums something softly. Some sort of affirmation, I think. But I don’t know what it is and I don’t think I care, either.  
  
            I haven’t been held in years. Not really held. Not by anyone other than Prim, who would squeeze like a boa constrictor. She’s only a few inches taller than me, and her chin would dig into my shoulder almost painfully. This is nothing like hugging my sister. Where Prim is hard, straight lines, Peeta is soft. And _warm_. So impossibly warm that I didn’t even realize I was cold until I was in his arms.  
  
            “It’s okay,” he murmurs, stroking at my hair. “It’s okay, Katniss.” I shake my head. He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, and he’s either correcting me or himself. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”  
  
            I shake my head against his chest, feeling a little lightheaded, and feel the press of his lips against my hair. “Do you wanna go home?” he asks.  
  
            Yes. I do. I want so badly to go home. But I also want to keep hugging Peeta.  
  
             
             
  
            He’s making dinner  when I emerge from the shower. I stand under the archway that separates the dining room from the kitchen, my wet braid soaking into my shirt. He’s got his back turned to me. He’s hunched over just slightly as he chops something up.  I can see the blocks of cheese on the counter. And the grater. Can smell the saltwater that he boils the macaroni in. And bacon. Thick cut bacon, which he has incorporated into at least one meal every week since I’ve mentioned that I had never had it before I lived with him. He’s never made it in macaroni before. I wonder what it would be like to slide in beside him. To pick up a knife and help him with the cutting. To bump my shoulder against his, the way my mother used to with my father. To steal bites of green peppers. And kisses.  
  
            The thought makes me frown. He may be my husband, but I don’t have an intentions of kissing him. And besides, after the first time I tried, I’m not exactly eager for him to push me away again. Just the thought makes me flush from head to toe.  
  
            “It smells good,” I say, and he jumps at the sound of my voice.  
  
            “We were out of bacon,” he says with a nervous little laugh. “I thought -- it’s a lucky thing you take such long showers.”  
  
            I notice the plastic bag on the counter beside him, and have to suck in another steadying breath. He went to the store. For me. Just to buy bacon for dinner. This time, I can’t help myself. My feet carry me to him. My arms loop under his, and I press my face into his back.  
  
            “Oh,” he breathes, his hand coming to rest on top of one of mine. “Hey,” he whispers.  
  
            “Thank you,” I say.  
  
            He laughs airily, as if playing this off. For a moment, I think he’s going to try to tell me that it wasn’t anything worth thanking him for. “You’re welcome,” he whispers instead. “Any time.”  
  
            I believe him.

 

            “Did you get enough to eat?” he asks, anxious. As if there isn’t a still mostly full skillet of food in front of me. As if I didn’t push the bowl away with as much finality as I could muster once I had scraped the bottom with my spoon. He always does this. Cooks too much and watches, like he hopes I’ll eat every bite of it.  
  
            It’s ridiculous. “I did,” I say.  
  
            He hesitates. Wets his lips. “You know the drill by now,” he says with a little laugh. “Plenty of leftovers, if you want them tomorrow.”  
  
            I nod. “As always.”  
  
            “As always,” he agrees. “Did you--? Did you want me to make something for dessert?” he asks. “I could throw together some cookies or something. If . . . if you wanted.”  
  
            He’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. I open my mouth to tell him as much, and then think better of it. “You’re fine,” I assure him. “I’m full.”  
  
            This earns me a relieved smile.

  
  


            I was the only woman in the group with my own bedroom. With my own bed. And here I am, standing around after we’re finished with the dishes, reluctant to let him out of my sight. It’s pathetic. _I’m_ pathetic, because all I should really want to do tonight is lock the door behind me and revel in the fact that I have a husband who won’t force his way in.  
  
            But that’s not what I do.  
  
            He looks surprised, at first, when I ask if we can watch the movie he told me about last week. A little disbelieving. And then -- delighted. That’s the only way I can think to describe the look on his face, at least. Pure, unbridled joy. “I don’t usually eat in the bed,” he says, his tone conspiratorial. “But this calls for popcorn.”  
  
            He dutifully prepares the popcorn while I go upstairs and change into my sleeping clothes. He even knocks on the wide open door before he comes inside, as if I would leave it open when I didn’t want him to come in. The bowl in his arms is massive, full to overflowing with what must be popcorn.  
  
            “Popcorn,” he announces, setting the bowl down onto the bed beside me. “As promised.” He’s got the movie, too, and he waves it in the air with one hand. “Are you ready?”  
  
            “I’m ready,” I agree. I’ve never had popcorn before. It’s salted, I think, and definitely tastes of butter. One kernel turns to two, and by the time he’s finished setting the player up, I’ve got a whole handful in my lap. He doesn’t think anything of it, once he’s turned out the light and settled himself up onto the bed beside me. I can feel the mattress as it dips. We haven’t dared watch TV together in my room since the day I accidentally learned about Seneca Crane murdering his wife, and I think that he must think that it’s something very delicate, my wanting to be with him.  
  
            My hand brushes against his in the popcorn, and though his eyes are fixed on the commercials playing, I swear his lips twist up into a small smile. “This movie’s pretty okay, too,” he informs me, nodding towards the screen. It doesn’t look good. It’s a love story, I think. I begin to worry that the movie Peeta rambled about for twenty minutes is about a couple falling in love. I can’t imagine anything more boring.  
  
            The movie isn’t about a couple, really. The world has practically ended, and it’s thanks in part to the machines that the Capitolites are so dependent on. Peeta admitted already that he’s seen it a good dozen times, but he’s still riveted. I keep stealing glances at him. Kind, generous Peeta, who is staying firmly on his half of the bed.  
  
            His half! The entire bed belongs to him! The whole house belongs to him! This used to be his bedroom, but he moved out when I showed up. I’m sure of it -- it’s the biggest room in the house. And then, even though I’m supposed to be watching the movie, I can’t help but to wonder why in the world he doesn’t have someone to share this house with. _He has you, idiot_ , I think. But that doesn’t count. How long has he lived in this house alone? It’s so big for just the two of us. I imagine he must have ordered me because he was so impossibly lonely, living in a mansion with no one to keep him company. Only, why would he have to order me at all?  
  
            “You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” Peeta says lightly, and I realize that I’ve been staring at him.  
  
            “Sorry,” I say, turning to look at the screen again.  
  
            “ ‘s okay,” he assures me with an easy smile. “You’re all right, though?” he asks. “I know today was --” he hesitates. “Not great.”  
  
            “I--”  
  
            “Understatement of the year,” he says with a little laugh. “Sorry. What was that?”  
  
            “I’m all right,” I say. I’m sure it would completely break his heart if I wasn’t, though. What would he do about it?  
  
            _Why don’t you have a wife?!_ I think, as he pays no attention to his favorite movie in favor of watching me, like he can figure out what’s wrong even if I don’t tell him. Why didn’t some Capitol woman snatch him up years ago? He’s certainly not unattractive. With those bright blue eyes and the soft blond waves that fall across his forehead, I’m sure that he’s been breaking hearts for years. And that’s not to mention how impossibly _kind_ he is.  
  
            “Do you want--?”  
  
            “Why didn’t you get married?”  
  
            The question is clumsy. Forceful. He blinks two, three times. “I did,” he says, a light edge of teasing in his tone.  
  
            “No,” I say. “I mean -- really married. Like . . .”  
  
            “I don’t --”  
  
            “I just don’t see how you ended up desperate enough to slum it.”  
  
            “ _Slum it?”_ he echoes, disbelieving.  
  
            I can feel myself blushing. “Your mother would have have much prefered you to marry someone from here, right?”  
  
            “My mother has nothing to do with it,” he says, though his tone is light. Playfully admonishing.  
  
            “But --” I don’t know why I’m still pressing. This should be enough. “There must have been _someone_.”  
  
            “There is,” he agrees, and I don’t know why my heart stutters in my chest. Oh. That’s the answer I’ve been pressing him for. “I married her a couple months ago.”  
  
            I don’t try to force him into telling me something he doesn’t want to, but he must know how unsatisfying that answer is, because he sighs.  
  
            “I -- was always waiting for someone,” he admits softly after a long moment. “Always thought . . .” he laughs at himself. “I always thought, you know, there was someone out there for me. I don’t know about the whole _soulmates_ thing, but . . . I wanted to be with someone.”  
  
            Oh.  
  
            He looks so vulnerable. I don’t mean to, but I inch so close to him that he has no choice but stretch his arm around me. He’s distracted for a moment by his thumb, which he rubs over the exposed skin of my shoulder.  
  
            “I never had a girlfriend.”  
  
            This really gets my attention. “Of course you did,” I say.  
  
            “No, true story,” he assures me. “I had friends. Not like my brothers did, though.”  
  
            “Oh,” I say.  
  
            “Everything comes really easily for Rye,” he informs me. “He was the star of the wrestling team. Always had friends coming over. And then his roommate in college was this guy from District Four. The housing assignment was just pure luck. But -- they were matched up. And fell in love. Obviously.”  
  
            “Yeah,” I agree.  
  
            “And I remember just watching them. Watching Rye, really. Because Cordelia was playing this game with Klaus. And -- Rye . . . was just watching them. And I was watching him. And there was this moment where Cordelia said something that made Klaus laugh, and even though we couldn’t hear them, Rye laughed, too. He’s just -- I tease them all the time about it being gross. But they’re so in love, Katniss.”  
  
            I nod.  
  
            “I don’t know. I was feeling sorry for myself one night not too long after that. And about halfway through a pity party, I found your face in the catalogue. You were under _recently added_ , and the way you were looking at the camera . . .”  
  
            I crane my neck to look at him.  
  
            “I thought you wanted to be married. To -- to -- have what Rye and Klaus have. With me. I know you weren’t smiling. But I thought . . . thought maybe it was a challenge. Maybe . . . I was supposed to make you smile. And I know now how pathetic that is. But . . . “  
  
            To my horror, I find myself pressing against him a little further. _I’m here_ , I want to say. _I’m your wife_. But it’s unfair of me to tell him any of that, when he knows as well as I do that, no, I never did want to marry him. Not in a million years. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t necessary, and it would be cruel of me to pretend anything else for the sake of sparing his feelings. It’s the third time I’ve hugged him this week, and I _did_ just promise myself that I was going to stop doing this. But this isn’t a real hug. It’s just my head on his shoulder. His thumb rubs against my upper arm just slightly. My heart slams against my chest at the gentle touch.  
  
            “You’re not pathetic.”  
             
            He gives a soft laugh. “Okay, Everdeen,” he says. “Easy for you to say. I get to make myself look _pretty_ cool, considering.”  
  
            I choke on a laugh. “I’m not that easily impressed,” I assure him, and he laughs.  
  
            “Oh, no, I know,” he says. “I thought you’d be falling all over me once you tasted my baking. Which, you still might,” he says conspiratorially. “You haven’t tried my petit-fours.”  
  
            “Petit-fours?” I repeat, and he laughs, maybe at the eager look on my face.  
  
            “They’re like miniature cakes,” he says, motioning to show me how big one is. “Way too much refined sugar. But I almost made you a wedding cake anyway. Like I said -- pathetic.”  
  
            The smile drains from my face. “You’re not,” I say. “You’re _not_.”  
  
            “I’m sorry,” he says. “It sounds like I’m fishing. I just-”  
  
            “Shut up,” I demand. He blinks slowly, a smile stretching across his features. He pretends to zip his lips and throw away the key, and it’s so juvenile that I roll my eyes. “You -- you . . .” I’m struggling, but I cut him a sharp glare when his lips part. “Aren’t you supposed to be zipped?”  
  
            He laughs, and I see a flash of brilliant white.  
  
            “You’re not pathetic. And you’re not --  you’re not like those other men.”  
  
            “ _What_?” he breathes.  
  
            “The other men,” I say, impatient. “The other -- the other husbands. They . . . I . . . I can see why _they_ couldn’t find a wife. But you . . .”  
  
            He wets his lips. Swallows. “But I _what_?” he prompts when he realizes that I’m not going to finish my thought.  
  
            “You -- you’re nothing like them.”  
  
            I watch him as he frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “Katniss,” he begins, and I make a point of scowling at him just to get him to shut up. __  
  
            Of all the people in the Capitol, I am married to Peeta Mellark, a man so good he happily gave me his own bed to sleep in, fed my sister, and my mother. And me. And he looks at _me_ like I hold the stars themselves in my eyes. It’s more than anything I could hoped for. Better than anything I could have imagined at my hungriest. My husband is _good_. So good. I tell him as much, and his eyes threaten to bulge out of his head. “You are. And kind. And generous. And -- funny. And . . . not pathetic.”  
  
            “Katniss,” he says again, though it’s more like a happy sigh than anything, this time.  
  
            “I’m trying to watch the movie,” I inform him, mostly because my cheeks are so hot that it’s more than a little uncomfortable.  
  
            “Yeah,” he says softly. “The movie. All right.”    
             
            II didn’t realize how tired I was until I’m already half asleep against him. It’s not him. It’s because he’s so _warm_. It’s because I’m so used to sleeping with someone in my bed that I haven’t been resting as well since the funeral. But it wouldn’t be the same, sharing a bed with Gale. Or any other man. Human contact is one thing, but for it to be from someone who’s got a soft, warm body is another thing entirely.  
  
            I crane my neck to look at him through half lidded eyes. His are trained on the screen. For the first time, I don’t see my Capitol Husband. I see Peeta. Just Peeta. Kind, _good_ , handsome Peeta.  
  
            “Stay,” I hear myself croak when the pillow I’m resting on begins to shift. The movie is over. The room is pitch black. And Peeta is trying to leave.  
  
            “I -- what?” he chokes, and I pull the blanket up over my shoulders, my face nuzzling against his chest. He smells of cinnamon, which I’m nearly certain is his soap. But there’s something else -- the bacon that he cooked for me earlier. If anything that just makes me more determined.  
  
            “Stay with me. Please?” I ask.  
  
            “Yeah, sure,” he says, a little dazed. But then he moves, and I’m rattled in my spot a little as he leans forward. I go to sit up, feeling thoroughly embarrassed, but before I’ve made it away from him, I realize that he’s detaching his prosthetic leg. His arm comes back to wrap around me, and he gently guides me back down so I’m laying on his chest. It’s different, with him lying down instead of sitting propped against the headboard. “Of course,” he murmurs. And then, softer, another word that I can’t make out. As I sink back into sleep, I think he kisses my forehead, but I can’t be sure I didn’t dream it.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, it takes a village. Eternal gratitude to my beta, Wooly, who works miracles with any half formed idea I toss her way. To my prereaders, wistfulweaverwoman, deinde-prandium, and midnighteverlark. I'm knittingkatniss on Tumblr, where I've been RELENTLESSLY teasing this chapter for the last week! Thank you to all! We're on the path towards fluff (I say, for the second time, making finger guns and slipping into the shadows.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by beta Wooly is amazing.

            It’s startling, to say the least. One minute, I’m listening to the story Peeta is telling me. I’m paying attention to the details that he always so carefully weaves into whatever it is that he’s trying to explain. And then, suddenly, his eyes dart off to the side before they meet mine, bright blue and earnest and _shy_ , and suddenly I’m not thinking about how he’s always wanted a pair of worn leather boots like the ones I found for him at the secondhand store. And it’s not because I’m not trying, but because suddenly my heart is pounding in my chest, and I’m making a conscious effort to not think about the fact that if he were to kiss me, it would absolutely not be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Unfortunately for me -- or maybe it is fortunate, I haven’t decided yet -- kisses seem to be the furthest thing from my husband’s mind. Buried underneath the layer of chatter about his new/old boots, there’s an endearing nervousness that I didn’t spot until we were already on the train headed towards District Twelve. I guess it makes since that Peeta would be anxious that he’ll stick out like a sore thumb in District Twelve. It’s not very nice of me to say so, but he _will_. That’s why I was so surprised that all he wanted to do to celebrate his bakery being bought by some wealthy Capitolite couple was to take a trip to District Twelve for his first full weekend off in years.   
  
            Yes, Peeta will stick out in District Twelve. Even with the boots, which are soft and worn and molded to someone else’s feet years ago. Even with the thick flannels I helped him pick out and mended for him when we got home. It’s not any one thing in specific. Peeta’s hair is natural, and he hasn’t had any fancy alterations -- none that I know of, at least. His eyes are the color he was born with, according to the baby pictures he showed me on his phone. His nails have a very chipped layer of light blue polish on them that I didn’t have the heart to tell him he should remove. It’s hardly the only thing that sets him apart as a Capitolite, anyway, and if I told him to take _his_ nail polish off, I’d have to get rid of my own, which he put so much work into -- even if he did make it look effortless. It’s not that I’m particularly attached to the pale green, or even the black arrows that seem to have an impossible amount of detail in them for being so small. It’s just that he was so pleased when I finally relented and let him fish out the shoebox from beneath the guest bed downstairs.  My nails have always been cracked and broken or jagged somehow. Have always had a thin layer of mud or blood or coal dust beneath them, no matter how I scrubbed. And I’ve always picked at them or bit them, anyway, which my father always used to chide me for. I still don’t know what it was that my mother smeared on my nails when I was little to make them taste bad, but it didn’t do anything to keep me from gnawing on them, it just taught me to reject anything that my mother wanted to do to cure me of whatever it was that she thought I was doing wrong. But since I’ve been in the Capitol, I haven’t had the chance to dig around in any dirt, let alone kill or skin an animal. And -- maybe it’s because of the glass of milk I drink every day, rather than insisting that Prim have whatever we didn’t need to trade. But when I mentioned that I had never seen my nails so long before, Peeta had looked so eager that I knew what he wanted to do before he even mentioned it, pretending to be casual.   
  
            “You know -- if you wanted. And this is totally up to you. But I could do your nails, sometime, maybe?” he had asked, and I had snorted, because it seemed so ridiculous. But then a few days later, after a guilting phone call from his father about how childish it is of him to have gone so long without reaching out to apologize to his mother, he seemed -- frazzled. He wasn’t short with me, or anything. I don’t think he’d ever forgive himself if he were to snap at me for something out of my control. But his whole body seemed tense in a way I hadn’t ever seen before, and he kept fidgeting in his seat during dinner.  Clenching muscles and releasing them. Picking at the light blue polish on his own nails. That was what gave me the idea.  
  
            “What color would you pick?” I asked when I could tell he was about to tell me goodnight. “If I had you paint my nails. What color would you pick?”  
  
`           “Wha--? Oh! I don’t know. What’s your favorite? Black would be striking with your skin tone. But so would anything light.”   
  
            My favorite color. I hadn’t ever really thought of it before, but he nodded somberly when I told him green, as if this was very important information. But he didn’t press. Didn’t beg me to let him do my nails, even though he did look thrilled when I announced that I would allow it, him painting my nails. “If you still wanted to,” I said, trying to inject the same false casualness into my voice as he had when he first mentioned wanting to paint my nails.  
  
            I suppose I already knew that he was an artist. He’s mentioned it a time or two. But that didn’t mean I was prepared for how _quickly_ he moved when he was painting lines on my nails. Small, quick, confident motions. He didn’t say anything while he worked. Tiny masterpieces on all ten of my fingers. He barely even breathed while he worked.   
  
            So of course I couldn’t ask him to take the paint off of my nails before we saw my family. It would be a betrayal. Silly and shallow as it is, I can’t do that to kind, generous Peeta. Can’t reject his gift. Can’t ask him to be the one to destroy the art he made just for me, no matter how extravagent it is.

  
  
  
  
  
  


           

The thing no one ever tells you about leaving home is that once you’ve been gone long enough, even coming home feels like a betrayal. I’m not sure what it is that’s changed between the day I left and the dozens of times I’ve made my new bed in the Capitol, but at some point, everything changed. Maybe it’s the boy beside me, his arm slung over the back of my seat and his legs, maybe not particularly long in general, but much longer than mine, slightly open and angled towards the aisle to give me more room in my seat. Maybe it’s him. Or maybe it’s me, considering the way I’ve tucked myself into his side. I’m not very familiar with the part of the woods that the railroad tracks cut through. It’s a bit of a hike from where we usually hunted, Gale and I, and the added risk of a Peacekeeper coming through and seeing us hunting without a license kept it from being anywhere near worth it. But the trees that surround us now are the same trees that surround my father’s lake, and the wildflowers I catch sight of while the train speeds by -- just flashes of yellow, purple, and white -- are the same wildflowers that bloom in the meadow. But it _feels_ different. It all does. When I left, it was just barely spring, and now, rather than blossoming with flowers, everything is green, light and dark all at once, somehow. I can’t feel the humidity yet -- all the windows are sealed -- but I’m sure as soon as we step foot outside it’ll be sweltering. Not that Peeta seems particularly concerned about that,painfully optimistic in his long sleeved flannel and the heavy jeans we found at the secondhand store. He modeled each of them for me dutifully, and I didn’t let him pick anything that was too tight. We ended up with three pairs of worn blue jeans, each one in a slightly darker wash than the last, and the darkest with a gaping hole in the knee that I patched when we got back to the house. He’s wearing a flannel, even though I’ve warned him over and over again how much warmer it is in Twelve that he’s used to. He was so proud of himself for finding the shirt -- a dark red plaid that almost looks like one that I brought from Twelve -- that I couldn’t bear to tell him he ought to consider something a little cooler. Even his boots are as different from the shiny black ones he usually wear as I could find. A pair of worn leather boots that molded to someone else’s feet years ago. It was the only pair that was big enough to fit his feet, and he was so excited to have a pair of “ _real”_ boots that couldn’t help his grin.   
  
            “Any time my boots started to get worn, my mother would insist on new ones,” he said, swiping his hair away from his face. “I had a pair sort of like this in college. I just -- wore the hell out of them. I won’t bore you with the details of how I lost them. But --”   
  
            I wanted so desperately to ask how someone _loses_ a pair of boots, but then he was plopping down onto the floor of the thrift shop and tugging his shoes off, and it was so impossibly endearing, the way he tried to jam his feet into the boots, that I had to busy myself looking at another pair of boots, in case those didn’t fit. But they did, and he’s worn them every day since.

At least if he gets heat stroke my mother will know what to do.   
  
            My mother. She’s already met Peeta. She met him at the same time as I did. But I’m still so anxious to see what she and my sister will think of the man I live with. They must still worry about me, even with the letters coming from me and Peeta, both just to update them on how we’re doing and to plan our visit. We’re only staying for the weekend, though Peeta has assured me that now that his bakery has been bought by some wealthy Capitol couple, he’ll have more free time and that he’d love to spend more time out here because he hears it’s beautiful in the fall. I wonder if he’ll still feel that way once he’s actually seen how little District Twelve has to offer to someone like him. Our bakery is just bare bones compared to his. Where there are dozens in any given part of the city in the Capitol, each specializing in something or another, ours just makes bread and the occasional cake or pie. Peeta’s bakery, for instance, specializes in little things. Tiny cakes, mini pies. Brightly colored little cookies that he likes to bring home for me on the days he works late, as sort of an apology, I think, for the fact that dinner is usually later on those nights.   
  
            He may love his boots, but he can take those off when he’s finished feeling like he’d like something different and exciting. I doubt he’ll be able to get us on a train home before Monday, even if he were to try. For the moment, he’s excited to the point of bursting. He’s asked me a million questions about Twelve in the weeks leading up to our trip, but I still imagine he’ll get tired of my home pretty quickly. It’s nothing, compared to the Capitol. A tiny dot on the map.  
  
  
            He doesn’t. We’ve been in Twelve for a whole day and night, and he still hasn’t lost that look of wide eyed wonder, even when my idea to take him to the Hob is a total wash. He’s a fish out of water in the black market, though he tries his hardest to hide that. I can tell just by the way his fingers grasp at mine. Slightly different from how he usually holds my hand, but no less eager. He eyes his boots while we weave through the tables in the Hob, and I know without asking that he’s heard the murmurs. It’s nothing I shouldn’t have expected. The way they see it, I sold myself -- body and soul -- to the highest bidder. And Peeta isn’t faring any better, either. I hear him called almost as many things as I hear myself called. _Greedy motherfucker_ is the one that gets him to turn and try to find the speaker, but I drag him further -- and straight into an all too familiar form, lean and lanky. Black hair that’s long for a boy but short compared to mine, gathered into a ponytail at the base of neck.  He’s so accustomed to being around me that it’s almost as if he knows it’s me before he turns around. At least, he looks unsurprised to see me. He drops his game bag on the counter, nodding for Sae to rifle through it, and his gray eyes flick from me to my husband. He’s a full head taller than my husband, and I don’t know that I’m imagining the way that Peeta shrinks back.   
  
            “You're alive, then,” Gale says, absolutely no hint of emotion in his voice.

 

            “Of course she's alive,” Peeta says, indignant, and Gale shoots me a look that says something along the lines of _can you believe this asshole?_ Before he remembers that we didn't exactly leave things on good terms.   
  
            “We weren’t sure,” pipes up a familiar voice behind me that makes my stomach bottom out. _Not now_ , I think. _Not here. Not in front of Peeta_. But sure enough, Tanner McGill, with his loud mouth, is watching us from a stall away. “Somehow, whores don’t seem to last---”   
  
            “Shut the fuck up,” Gale says, eyes flashing darkly.   
  
            Gale has said similar things. Has accused me of selling myself. But this -- coming from a man who has made it his mission for years to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible. It used to be that he would leave me alone if I was walking with Gale. While he’s not half as strong as Peeta, he’s tall and intimidating and could always shut Tanner up with a glare. It was worse during the year I was still in school while Gale was in the mines. When I would try to trade by myself during the week and Tanner, who had nothing better to do with his time, would whistle lowly at me. He never came close enough for me to punch him in the jaw. And the way he’s eyeing me now -- as if I’m somehow even _less_ than just something that he saw from afar for a few years and wanted to fuck -- he won’t come close enough now.   
  
            “Your girlfriend sells herself to some---”   
  
            “Shut the fuck up,” Gale and I say in unison. Poor Peeta is caught in the middle, I imagine he must be torn between hurt and confusion about the comment about me being Gale’s boyfriend and indignation that someone would accuse him of buying me. Which is what he did, though, isn’t it?  

  
            Gale glances over at Peeta, and while he still seems to be looking straight through him, he won’t condemn me to a Capitol man’s potential rage. “Katniss and I never dated,” he says. “Tanner is an asshole.”   
  
            Peeta swallows. “He seems like it,” he says, a smile that’s not nearly as convincing as I’m used to from him stretching his lips.   
  
            Gale glances over at me, eyes not quite soft with sympathy, but not hard with anger, either. “You should probably get out of here,” he says. Just the same as when he assured Peeta I was never his girlfriend. Plain facts. No emotion.   
  
            “Come to dinner tonight.”   
  
            Gale and Peeta exchange a look, and I hate it, this feeling that they’re talking over my head. “You sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, his eyes finally on me again. I can see it in the way that he’s eyeing Peeta. He’s sure that my husband is a threat. I want to hold up the hand that’s still holding Peeta’s. Want to remind him that he’s trusted my judgement for years. But if I wanted to bring a blackbear around for dinner, he’d probably give me the same look.   
  
            “Well, don’t stay away on my account,” says Peeta.   
  
            Gale glances at Peeta, looking almost incredulous, but just for a second. “Fine,” he says, giving me a short nod. The same one he gives anyone he’s just made a deal with. “You’re ruining my trade, you know,” he says, just the smallest hint of a wry smile on his lips. “I can’t let them think I--”  
  
            “Shut up,” I say, as though it’s not the closest I’ve come to teasing him in nearly a year, considering how long he was angry with me before I left for the Capitol. I take his advice, though, and drag Peeta out of the Hob.   
  
As always, Peeta is willing to go wherever I’d like to take him. When his hand slides from mine, I wait for the questions to start. For him to tell me that Gale can’t come for dinner. For him to tell me that it’s time we leave. But he doesn’t. Instead, he kneels down, getting grass stains on his light jeans, and picks, of all things, a dandelion. There’s a moment where our eyes meet before he stands, and I know that he’s thinking of the day we met. That we picked dandelions then, too, and that he had absolutely no idea they were even edible. I wonder if meeting Gale has made him realize just out how of place he is here -- or how out of place _I_ am in the Capitol. If any of this is bothering him, though, he doesn’t show it, just presents me with the weed and a nervous smile.   
  
            “I want to show you something,” I announce as soon as his gift is safe in my pocket.

              
            This time, I’m the one to reach for his hand.   
  
  
            His excitement doesn’t falter until he realizes that I expect him to climb through a window. I tuck my flower behind my ear and ask him for a boost, which he’s willing to give. Only, then he watches me through the window with these puppy dog eyes, like I ought to just open the door and let him in. “Come on!” I say, stepping out of the way. I mean to tease him, but I can see the moment that he decides that he’s going to impress me. It takes him a few tries to slide through, and once he does, he sprawls out onto his back, not caring at all that the floor is dusty.   
  
            “Go on without me,” he huffs. “I’m a goner.”   
  
            I sit down beside him, perching on my shins, and reach my hand out gently to smooth his hair away from his eyes. He leans his head against my hand, just slightly. I’d be lying if I said that the intimacy of the moment didn’t startle me. I watch as his eyes trail around the room and suddenly feel very embarrassed that _this_ is the place I decided he needed to see the most. Flecks of dust dance in the light that streams in through the plastic sheeting that’s been tacked up over the windows. Almost all of the books are gone. Shelves sit empty, or have been knocked down. The armchairs that once filled the room are gone, leaving what was once a cozy reading room looking sparse. And that’s not to mention the tags that have been scrawled onto the walls. We’re certainly not the only ones who have snuck in here since it closed down.   
  
            . “There used to be more books,” I say. “That whole wall was just cookbooks. Which -- before, if you wanted to cook something new, someone had to show you how. But now -- there were all these _books_. Just there for anyone to read.”  
  
            “I didn’t know you liked to cook,” he says. “If I knew --”   
  
            “It’s nothing fancy,” I say. “Nothing like what you make.”   
  
            “Doesn’t matter,” he assures me, sitting up once he’s sure that I’m finished playing with his hair.   
  
            “And then books about gardening. And healing. History books. And . . . books that were just for fun. After -- after I signed up for the registry, I didn’t need to spend all my time in the woods. But Prim didn’t know that. And she’d have figured me out if I suddenly had a bunch of free time.”   
  
            He nods solemnly, but I know he has no idea what I’m talking about.   
  
            “So I’d read. When I wasn’t in the mines and I was sure we had enough food for the week.”   
  
            “I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.   
  
            “I didn’t either,” I say, ducking my head. “Books were always . . . expensive. I mean, my father had plenty of stories to tell me when I was little. But not from books.”   
  
            “There’s a library by the house. Tons of them. But . . . There’s this one just outside of the city that you’ll -- well, I _hope_ you’ll like it. It’s set back sort of -- it’s not quite a forest. But more trees than you usually see in the Capitol. And . . . it’s like magic,” he says with a grin that’s so impossibly endearing. “I’d love to take you there sometime. Huge windows. Just -- massive. And more books than I could even _count_.”   
  
            “That sounds nice,” I say, and can practically see him melt with relief that I don’t think his idea is stupid.

 

            He keeps babbling. Something about how when he moved out of the city, he was looking for a good place to sit and think, and that there’s a coffee shop not far from the library that he just loves. And for reasons I can’t explain, I keep inching closer and closer to him. It’s my arm against his, first, and he trails off nervously, glancing down at where we’re touching, as if he’s not sure what to make of it.   
  
            “What kind of books?” he asks. Closer. My hands brush his, and he laces our fingers together. “I mean -- the fun ones. Not the cookbooks. Probably adventure, right? Or action? Something with a badass lady character, I’m sure. Oh! There’s this one series I read -- I wonder if they had it here--”   
              
            Closer. I can feel his breath on my cheek. I have no idea what’s possessed me to get so _close_ to him.  
  
            “Probably not,” I say, casual, as if it’s totally normal for my face to be this close to his.   
  
            “Probably not,” he agrees with a nervous laugh that I can’t help but to return. “But I could find it for you. When we get back to the Capitol. It’s a pretty short series. Like three or four books? And it’s kind of . . . I mean, I’m sure you’ve graduated from young adult literature. But I still read young adult, sometimes. And not just to look cool when I had that teenager for a summer internship at the bakery.”   
  
            Closer still. His breath hitches. His eyes dart down to my lips, as they have a thousand times, and he looks impossibly embarrassed when he realizes that I’ve noticed, just as he has a thousand times. My heart is pounding in my chest. I wonder, watching the way he keeps nervously shifting, if his is, too. If it’s normal. If this is what’s supposed to happen when you’re this close to your husband.   
  
            “I, ah--” he begins, and then stops, giving me a breathy laugh.   
  
            “What?”   
  
            “Nothing,” he assures me. “ I just . . . “ he motions vaguely, as if that’s any help at all. “You know.”   
  
            “I don’t.”   
  
            He grins, but it slips a little with his nerves, and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. And then there’s this moment where I can’t breathe, and I have absolutely no idea what that’s about.   
  
            I’m the one who moves in. It’s not like there’s a tremendous gap between our faces at this point, anyway. And if he’d like, he could always jerk his head to one side or the other and give me a hug, instead. We’ve hugged before. Hugs are fine. Hugs are good. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move at all, even when my lips land on his, somewhere between his chin and his lower lip. In fact, if it even counts as a kiss at all, it’s over as soon as it begins, and I’m only vaguely aware of the smack of his lips as they part over the roaring of the blood rushing to my cheeks. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear quickly, unable to form the words for the apology I owe him. I so hated it when Gale kissed without my permission, and now I’ve done the same thing to Peeta -- _twice_.   
  
            Only, then he laughs. A breathless thing. And for a split second, I think it’s because it must be pathetic to him that I thought that this would be something he wanted. Only, then he darts towards me, so fast that he’s just a blur. A painful blur that ends up with his nose pressed to my cheekbone. My hand flies to my face, and he goes pale, he’s so horrified. But then he realizes that I’m laughing, so it’s okay for him to laugh, too, and his head drops to my shoulder as his shoulders shake. And then we’ve both dissolved into a puddle of giggles, barely managing to stay upright. And then --   
  
            And then, even though he’s grinning, he sobers just slightly. Just enough to try -- more slowly this time -- to angle his face against mine. My breath leaves me in a laugh through my nose, and I’m sure he can feel it on his face, but he doesn’t mind. This kiss is just as short as the first, but at least we both know it’s coming this time. His hand raises to my cheek when I pull away,  carefully tracing at the side of my head with just his fingertips. I shudder when they find the shell of my ear, and he somehow smiles even _more_.   
  
            “I -- this is all new,” he says.  
  
            Another laugh leaves me, softer, this time. “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” I admit.   
  
            “Oh, man,” he says. “We’re screwed, then.”   
  
            There’s nothing dignified about my laugh at this. I snort, and he throws his head back, laughing harder than I’ve ever heard him laugh before. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this happy. This safe. I haul myself up to my feet and feel Peeta’s eyes on me as I sort through the pile of books that have been left behind. My favorite has been left untouched. I was reading it for a third time the week that I got the marriage contract in the mail. The cover was ripped off years ago, but the story itself is still in near perfect condition. The scrap of paper I tucked into the third chapter to mark my place is still there. A relic. A souvenir from who I used to be.   
  
            Peeta clambers to his feet. I think that he’s going to kiss me again -- and I think I’m going to let him -- but then suddenly the overhead lights flicker on, and I can hear the footsteps coming down the stairs. Peeta is horrified that I want him to climb through the window first, but listens to reason when he realizes that I won’t go first. It takes me much less time to slide through than it took him, and as soon as I land on my feet, I grab his hand with the one that isn’t clutching the book and we run all the way to the Seam. Well. Almost all the way. We end up leaning against an old warehouse, laughing almost as hard as we did in the library.   
  
            Almost.


	9. what he thinks you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo. ok. ok, what a week. ok. I am doing Things In Real Life to express how I feel about this whole election thing, and I urge you to as well, but right now it's late, right now I'm tired, and right now, I'm recovering from laying in my bed with my blanket over my head and crying for half an hour. So here. Have this. 
> 
> Warning: there's a discussion where Gale begins to describe what everyone thinks Peeta is doing with Katniss. Mainly, having his way with her. It doesn't get explicit, but if you need me to send you a version without this scene, please shoot me a message on tumblr (fempeeta) or an email at arollercoasterthatonlygoesup@gmail.com. Thank you to Wooly for beta-ing, as always, and for helping with the Gale in this chapter. Thank you all for reading. Tomorrow will be kinder

I never realized that you could see a kiss coming a mile away.

 I think it may be because I also never realized that Katniss might _actually_ want to kiss me. There was that first day in the Capitol, when she marched right up to me in the kitchen, scrunched up her nose like she was about to take medicine, and shoved her face right against mine.

My first kiss, given to me unwillingly by a girl who was sure she had figured out why, exactly, I had paid a small fortune to marry someone from District Twelve. I pushed her away with a hand on each of her shoulders, even though what I really wanted to do was somehow both crush her against my chest in a hug and promise her that I wouldn’t touch her -- ever -- if she didn’t want me to. I spent days -- weeks, maybe -- trying to stay at least a step or two away from her, but she kept gracing me with these little touches. And while I didn’t quite understand her reasons for touching me, I liked it. I still don’t understand it. But that doesn’t keep me from liking it.  
  
From liking the idea that not only could she tolerate sharing an enormous house with me, but that maybe she could tolerate the idea of _me_. More than that, maybe.  
  
Maybe . . . Maybe I have a chance. At something real, I mean. Not just a marriage contract, but a _marriage._ I can’t imagine it’ll happen all at once -- if it happens at all. But just the thought, just the idea that maybe Katniss could possibly want something like I do, it’s enough to make my heart flip. Katniss taking the role not of my wife, not even just of my equal, but the role of my _partner_. Someone to share my life with. It’s not hard to get caught up in the idea of it. My wife sitting at the table in the back of the bakery while I bring her as many little treats as she could stomach. There’s this look -- one I’ve seen her give Klaus a couple of times. Somehow a scowl, a glare, and a smile all at once. It’s all in the way the skin around her eyes crinkles, exposing just a slit of gray. I haven’t been fortunate enough to receive it yet, but I imagine I would if I were to shower her with the amount of pastries I can think of just off the top of my head that I’d like to see her reaction to. And other things, too. Taking her dancing. Bowing at the waist and kissing her hand, just like in the old movies.

 

I want to try to make it everything she could ever want, when she’s ready.

 

If she’s ever ready.

 

I don’t mind waiting. Not for that.

  
So I tried to wait. But then there were the hugs. The comments about me being _good_. Even _more_ hugs. And the way that she managed to keep glancing at my lips and away. But I kept telling myself to stop being such a fucking idiot.

She held my hand that day, when I found her hiding out in the woods, and after that, we both found every excuse we could to touch each other. I don’t know why she did, but I know that I just liked to feel that she was real. That she was here. That she wasn’t going to starve to death.  
  
And then --  
  
The kiss took me by surprise in the moment, but looking back on it, I suppose I could have guessed it, if I hadn’t been so busy trying to convince myself that Katniss didn’t _actually_ want anything to do with me. When we reach the little lopsided shack in the Seam, Katniss doesn’t dive through the doors like she did when first got here. Instead, she just sort of . . . looks at me.  
  
I’m not sure how to explain it. Not the way her bottom lip catches between her teeth. Not the way her eyes slant just slightly closed, as if she’s _really_ looking, seeing something no one ever has. And I certainly don’t have the words for the little breathless smile she offers, as if she likes what she sees. I want -- so badly -- to catch her face in my hands and pepper her face with kisses. Only, I’m not certain that I’m allowed to do that, and it’s such a delicate thing, her wanting to touch me at all, that I don’t want to spoil it by pushing things too far.  But there she is, inching closer to me. It’s nothing, really. Just her weight shifting onto the foot closer to me. That, combined with the smile, I almost can’t handle it. My heart begins to thrash around, pounding out a stupid hopeful cadence against my ribcage when her hand rests on my forearm. Small isn’t quite the right word to use to describe her. Small implies some sort of weakness, and delicate would imply a sort of fragility that isn’t present in the girl in front of me at all. But still, the hand that rests against my arm is so -- real. Solid. Warm. Her fingers curl curiously around the exposed skin there, just under where I’ve pushed the sleeves of my shirt up. My breath catches in my throat, and I don’t have the chance to hope that she won’t notice, because then her lips twitch up into a smile that’s much more like a smirk and I see her as a hunter for the first time. A hunter who knows for certain that she’s got me in her sights.  
  
She doesn’t pull away. Not even when my hand comes up to rest at the side of her face, sort of cradling her jaw. She won’t meet my eyes. Not when I’m this close. But that’s okay. I’ll take whatever she wants to give me, and I’ll be happy with it.  
  
“My sister is watching,” she mumbles.  
  
“Is that --?” I begin, and then stop myself. If it wasn’t okay, she would have stepped away by now. “Yeah?” I ask.  
  
“She doesn’t trust you, you know.”  
  
Oh. That’s not quite what I had expected to hear. I don’t realize that her hand had been tightening on my arm to keep it in place until I’ve already pulled away, and I feel like I’ve gotta stick to my decision. Her lips pull down into a scowl.  
  
“Sorry,” I say. But it’s too late. Clearly, I’ve embarassed her. Reminded her of all the reasons that her sister has not to trust me by being the kind of idiot who throws a tantrum at the idea of a total stranger not liking me. She ducks for the door and I want desperately to stop her with a kiss, but I’m nowhere near that brave.

  


We have a guest for dinner. Gale Hawthorne, who I met earlier at the black market Katniss dragged me to. We all crowd around the smallest table in the country, trying not to look at each other’s hands while we play Rummy. At least, most of us try not to look at each other’s hands. Katniss and Prim are both cheating horribly, but their mother seems so unbothered that it must be normal for the two of them. Gale chides Prim once or twice, but finally gives up on trying to talk her into playing by the rules, even defending the obvious cheating at one point. .

  
“So how did you two meet, again?” I ask.  
  
“Around,” Gale answers, as if that’s even slightly helpful. Katniss coughs.  
  
“It’s okay, Gale,” she says. “We met--”  
  
“Is it?” Gale asks.  
  
“I said it’s okay. It’s okay. That’s enough.”  
  
“What?” he asks. “I’m just checking. Not sure how much this guy knows, is all.”  
  
“He knows enough,” Katniss says, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Is she keeping me from knowing about Gale? Or is she keeping Gale from knowing about me? Something about the idea that we don’t coexist well in her mind raises a red flag. Or maybe that’s just my mother talking.  
  
“We met in the woods,” Gale says.. “She hunts. You told him that yet?”  
  
I go to answer for her, but think better of it.  
  
“Yes, Gale,” Katniss says, looking slightly shamed. I’d like to think that the real insult here is the idea that she needs protecting from _me_ , but I know that it’s more the fact that Katniss can take care of herself, and she doesn’t want her sister to think she can’t keep herself safe.  
  
“Oh, she’s terrifying,” I joke. “Trust me, I know.”  
  
Katniss’s lips part in protest., but she doesn’t get the chance to respond. Gale, who has been sitting there with his eyes narrowed, as if he’s already finished sizing me up and he’s certain that he doesn’t like what he sees, beats her to that. “See, I’ve been trying to figure out what you were looking for in a bride,” he says.  
  
“Gale,” she begins.  
  
“Hold on,” he says, not even sparing her a glance.  “I mean, I get it,” Gale says. “Plenty of guys like you have to outsource.”  
  
“Guys like me?”  
  
“I mean. When no one who lives near you will fuck you, you gotta look somewhere else, right? I mean, submissive, docile, sure. But -- who buys a bride that terrifies them when they’re just looking to get their dick wet?”  
  
“That’s not--” I begin.. “What?” he asks. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong? You weren’t looking for something to fuck?”  
  
“Look, man,” I begin, and Gale snorts.  
  
“Don’t _look, man_ me,” he says, his voice lilting a little in an imitation of my accent. “Answer the question. I’m sure you didn’t waste any time before you let Katniss know. I tried to tell her, you know. Told her what you’d do to her. Did she listen? No. Of course not.”  
  
“Watch it,” I say. Gale flicks his eyes over towards Katniss and I follow his gaze. To my utter shock, Katniss seems to shrink in her seat under his examination, her face burning horribly as her eyes focus on her lap. She says nothing back to the guy sneering at her from across the table.  
  
“What?” he asks. “That’s why you brought her here, right?” he asks. “So you could make sure we all knew -- hell, make sure that _she_ knows that you get to bring her home, drag her to the bedroom--”  


I’m not sure what I’m doing when I rise to my feet, but Gale is quick to follow

“Gale,” I say, and there’s something about the way I say his name that sets him off, I guess, because then he shoves me, and I fall flat on my ass. I watch it happen. One minute, he’s proud of himself. But then his eyes land on my legs. Or just the one. The smirk uncurls his lips, and he looks over at Katniss, as if she’s going to agree with him about how pathetic I am. I take the chance while I have it and climb to my feet.  
  
I shove back. Gale is taller than me, though, and a little more prepared than I was, so he doesn’t so much as flinch. “Boys!” Mrs. Everdeen tries to scold, but neither of us are listening.  
  
“What?” I ask. “You think I can’t handle myself?”  
  
His eyebrows flick up. No one has ever stopped hitting me because of my leg, and I won’t let him start now.  
  
“Which one is it, Gale? Am I throwing her over my shoulder, kicking and screaming, or am I too weak to handle your temper tantrum?”  
  
“Peeta!” Katniss protests, as if _I’m_ the one who needs to stop. “Just leave it alone.”  
  
“I’ve been with Prim this whole time, you know,” he says, glancing between me and Katniss. It’s very important to him that we both understand this, even if Katniss still hasn’t met his eyes. “Told her that her sister’s husband _probably_ wasn’t sitting there with a knife while she wrote about all the _food_ in the Capitol. I was the one who held her while she cried during the broadcast of the trial for that piece of shit who just can’t seem to stop murdering his brides--”  
  
There’s a small noise of protest, but I can’t tell if it came from Prim or from Katniss.  
  
“Somehow, a letter with a throwaway line at the end about how your husband gave you your own bedroom didn’t exactly assure her you were safe out there.”  
  
“If I knew she knew about Crane and his wives, I would have--”  
  
“She reads everything about brides in the Capitol she can get her hands on,” Gale says. “I know _you_ don’t know her well enough to know she’s been following that case since the day you two got on that train. But I do. And I know that I was right. That if she had really thought about it and decided to be with someone who really loved her--”  
  
“Someone who really loved her?!” I echo, incredulous. “Loves her enough to try to make her feel like shit for--”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Neither do you,” I say. Gale shoves me again, but I’m ready for it this time, and I manage to knock him back, even if just by a step or two.  
  
“ _STOP!_ ” Katniss demands, her voice louder than I’ve ever heard it.  
  
He lunges for me again, but I think I’ve been in a few more fights than he has, because I manage to duck out of the way. And then, before I can lose my nerve, I shove him with both hands on the center of my chest, and he stays where he lands against the wall, glaring daggers at me.  
  
“What’s _wrong_ with you?!” she asks, and it’s not until she’s already ran out of the room I realize that I have no idea if she’s talking to me or to Gale.  


. . .  
  
I set off to find her as soon as she left, but somehow, she’s the one who finds me. I stalled when I reached the meadow where we picked dandelions all those months ago, when I first came to pick her up. I’d like to say that it’s just because this is where she told me she gets back into the district after she finishes in the woods, but it’s dark, and I don’t know the first thing about the mountains outside of the fence. So that’s where she finds me, laying flat on my back in the grass. How she knows it’s me, I have no idea.  
  
“What are you doing?” she asks, but I don’t have an answer. As I sit up, she makes her way to my side, where she settles down until she’s sitting on her shins. 

.”You were listening.”  
  
“Of course I was listening,” I say.  
  
She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth. And the way she’s watching me . . . if I didn’t know better, I would think she wanted me to kiss her. This would be a romantic enough spot, with the moonlight reflecting off of the blades of grass and the sound of the bugs that she’s told me the name of twice, now. The problem is, I _do_ know better. I’m not here because Katniss dragged me out here wanting me to sweep her off of her feet. I’m here because she ran away. Again.  
  
It’s a pretty place to let me down gently, I suppose.  
  
“Hey,” she sighs.  
  
“Hey,” I echo, dragging a hand through the hair on the back of my neck. She bites down on her lip a little harder, and I’m gripped with this terrible urge to put my hand on her cheek and brush my thumb across her bottom lip until she releases it. Instead, I bite down on the inside of my cheek -- hard.  
  
“This is where we picked the dandelions for the salad, that first night,” she informs me, as if I could have possibly forgotten.  
  
“I know,” I rasp. She looks down, fingers tugging at the grass beneath us, working long blades loose down near the root. This is it. This where she tells me that she won’t be coming home with me. Where she reminds me that I can’t make her. It’s true, of course. Even if I could physically bring her back to the Capitol, I’d never be able to live with myself afterwards, and she knows that by now. She has to know that.  
  
Another look I can’t name. This one guarded. She’s protecting herself by glancing at me from underneath her eyelashes. “I had to get out of there,” she says.  
  
“I gathered,” I say, and brace myself for the inevitable, _you have to get out of here, too_.  
  
_But she was coming around_ , whines that pathetic hopeful voice in my head. I don’t think that _happy_ was the right word, but she didn’t seem to hate me, for a few shining moments there. Asked me to stay with her. Granted, she was half asleep, but _still_. I may not know Katniss as well as Gale does, but I know she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t at least think she wanted me to stay.  
  
But she kissed me. Just a few hours ago. And -- well. It didn’t _feel_ like a goodbye. It felt like the beginning of everything. There’s this tender ache in my chest that sort of reaches towards her, naive enough not to know any better, and I try hard to tamp it down.  
  
“Katniss-” I begin.  
  
“You don’t get to decide, you know,” she says.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You don’t get to unmake a decision I made just because you’re the one with money,” she says. “And when were you going to tell me? When I was already on a train back to Twelve? When were you looking into this, anyway?” she asks.  
  
My cheeks feel hot. “After group. When I realized that--”  
  
“After I told you not to send me away, then.”  
  
It takes a minute for me to come up with a good response for that one.  
  
“Right?”  
  
I nod, my mouth dry, and she rolls her eyes.  
  
“Here I am, sitting there thinking--” she begins, and then cuts herself off, her mouth snapping shut.  
  
“Thinking what?” I ask.  
  
She gives her head a quick shake. She didn’t know there was really an option, and now it probably burns to even have to consider leaving Twelve when I go home. My mouth dries up. _Stupid. Stupid_. It’s fine. It has to be fine. This is how it was always going to end. I mean to tell her that I’ll send her things back when I get home. And cheese buns. But -- she’s serious, suddenly, staring up at me.  
  
“Don’t try to remake my decisions for me,” she says. “All right?”  
  
I nod wildly. “I won’t. I just thought--”  
  
“I don’t care what you thought,” she says, though there’s something bordering on playful in her tone. “I’m staying. With you.”  
  
“Okay,” I say.  
  
It’s quiet for a long moment.  
  
“We should probably--”  
  
“You know,” she says. “I’ve been waiting all day.”  
  
“I know,” I begin. I don’t know what speech I’m about to give her, but I open my mouth to try to say something at least halfway coherent, and she shakes her head to shut me up.  
  
“I’ve been waiting all day for you to kiss me again,” she says. “And you’ve been, what? Sitting there thinking about--”  
  
I’m careful this time. Sure to move slowly enough that I don’t ram my face against hers, the way I did in the library. Slowly enough that she could turn away, if she wanted to. It’s just my hand, at first. She shudders against the feeling of the pads of my fingers on her face, tipping her face against the touch. My fingers move towards the shell of her ear, just like they did earlier. I want to map out her face with my fingertips. Want to trace over the slope of her nose -- a Seam Nose, she had called it once, and I had watched as it wrinkled with her smile. Want to smooth over the skin just below those grey eyes with my thumb, just to see the reaction it would earn me -- though I think I can guess that it would be something along the lines of narrowed eyes and a smirk, as if she thinks I’m ridiculous.  
  
Maybe I am ridiculous. So I do it, and to my surprise, her head tilts forward into the touch, just slightly. She’s still smiling when my lips brush against hers, and just the feeling of it has me smiling, too. This is another thing I didn’t know about kissing. I expected -- I don’t know.  It’s nice, of course. Any opportunity to be so _close_ to Katniss is bound to be nice, though. I can smell the shampoo I bought for her, which smells infinitely better in her hair than it did from the bottle. I can feel the brush of her breath against my skin, warm. She tilts her head towards mine and hums happily when I try to mirror the movement. It’s nice, but it’s not the serious sort of kissing you see in the movies.  
  
It’s better. Much better.  
  
“Peeta?” she asks, her voice small.  
  
“Yeah?” I ask.  
  
“I’m glad you’re not what he thinks you are.”  
  
“Me, too.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Mom tried to warn me that I was being an idiot -- and she was right -- but not for the reasons she thought. It was dumb to think that Katniss Everdeen was going to fall in love with me. Of course the wife I bought from District Twelve, who was so desperate for food and money that she put herself up for auction, wasn’t going to fall in love with me. 

 

And... yeah. 

 

It does kind of make me an idiot, buying into the story they sold me. The one about how the girls on the registry all actually want to move to the Capitol. The one where the brides are happy, well adjusted, and open to falling in love with the lonely men with big empty houses and overstuffed wallets that pay to bring them out to live with them. The one where Katniss Everdeen wanted to live in the Capitol because she actually wanted to be here with me, and not because it was the only way to live at all.    
  


Katniss Everdeen is never going to fall in love with me.  That’s always been a given. But she’s been -- different, ever since we got back from Twelve.  

 

Or maybe things were just different in Twelve. I don’t know. The more I think about it, the less I’m sure of. There were the kisses -- two of them in as many days! And then we had to leave. Well, _I_ had to leave, and she decided out of of some twisted sense of duty that that meant she did, too. But sometime on the train ride home, a switch flipped, and it was like the last four months of progress were completely undone. She went back to being quiet. Somehow almost even _more_ withdrawn. I promised her we’d go back to Twelve, but that didn’t even seem to be the problem.  I still don’t know what it is.   
  
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” she said, waving her hand vaguely, as if to encompass everything. But she didn’t finish that thought, and I couldn’t do it for her, so she gave me a tiny sad smile, and then she curled her knees to her chest and slept nearly all the way back to the Capitol. When she woke with her head on my shoulder, she jerked away like I had burned her, and then hid in her hair when I apologized.   
  
I’ve been giving her a wide berth ever since. Smiling and lying to Annie and customers at work when they ask how Katniss is. I always lie when people ask me about my wife, even when she’s having a good week. The week I went back to work, Lou, a regular with a mustache like a straw push broom dropped a little advertising tablet into the tip jar that Annie wagged at me, giggling. _The first year_ , it said on the front in big bold letters. Inside was lots of advice I certainly didn’t ask anyone for, especially not Lou, and a bunch of interactive webpages for advice on how to do things like “connect with my bride.” Turns out, Lou considers himself something of an expert in ordered brides and makes a living off telling other people what to do.   
  
Anyway, I kind of forgot about the tablet until last night, when I came home to find Katniss either in bed already or still in bed. When I knocked on the door, she answered, muffled, that she was just tired and that she was sorry.   
  
But I didn’t want her to be sorry. I wanted her to be happy. So I dug out Lou’s bullshit tablet and flicked through a few screens, hoping for something about bridal happiness instead of all the pages about discipline. And then, finally, when I searched for the word _depressed,_ I landed on one about failure to adjust, which was so much less focused on why brides might have a hard time in the Capitol. I skimmed a few pages about men who were disappointed in the fact that their brides couldn’t adjust to life in the Capitol. And then, finally, there was a link to Lou’s real business -- an institution for those brides.  
  


_ Fact: 80% of brides don’t make it through their second year in the Capitol. Don’t blame yourself for a bride who’s incapable of adjusting to life in a civilized society. If your bride is  _

 

  * __Argumentative__


  * _Disobedient_


  * _Unattached_


  * _Ungrateful_


  * _Depressed_



 

_ You’re not alone. We can help. Our treatment facilities are designed to help create structure in a bride’s life when she fails to adapt to her new husband’s rules. No bride’s emotional luggage should keep them from performing at the level you paid for. Admissions start at --  _

_  
_ That’s as far as I got before I threw the tablet against the wall. 

  
It was quiet, after the crash. I held my breath, half expecting for Katniss to come downstairs and ask what was wrong. But she didn’t. The glass screen was shattered when I came over to clean up my mess, but the screen flashed, trying to turn on again. I crushed it beneath the leather boot Katniss found for me. It’s exactly like my mother, breaking things when I get angry, and I tried to think up an excuse to tell to Katniss that didn’t make me sound like exactly the kind of man she should never be married to. But there wasn’t one. So I threw it away outside, underneath the bag of trash from the kitchen.  
  
But that doesn’t mean I’m not glad I did it. I still am, even as I approach the door with a fistful of flowers that I brought for Katniss, just in case she was concerned about marrying a man with such a bad temper.   
  
Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe I got away with it. Maybe I’m just being stupid. I bring the flowers inside anyway. They aren’t the huge perfect ones from the store, or anything. I just snagged some off the bush on my way to the car. They’re azaleas, I’m pretty certain. Such a pale pink that they almost look white, other than the deeper pink in the middle. I feel so stupid that I almost just drop them on the front porch and pretend like I never had the thought in the first place. Not just because the flowers are so small they’re practically nothing at all. _Fact: Katniss Everdeen is hardly the kind of girl who would even want flowers._  
  


  
“Peeta?” I hear her ask as I close the door behind me, though there’s no real curiosity in her voice. It’s just me. Of course it is.   
  
“Just me,” I confirm.    
  
There’s food on the stove. And Katniss, standing there in front of it with her hunting boots planted on the ground. She’s wearing --   
  
_Oh._

 

Those are absolutely my clothes. 

 

The jeans are what I notice first. So loose on her, even with the belt -- also mine -- cinched around her waist and hooked back through the loops that they pool at the tops of her boots. They’re an older pair of jeans with a rip at the top of the left pocket, but by far my favorite. Even more so now. The thought of Katniss raiding my laundry is so endearing and I’m so distracted by my swelling heart that I almost don’t notice the shirt she’s wearing when she turns to face me. 

 

 _Capitol School of the Culinary Arts_.   
  
The shirt is far too big on her, the text folding in on itself on wrinkles as it hands off of her body. But I know what it says.   
  
“Hey,” I say. “I -- hey.”   
  
Her lips tick up into a smile. _Fact: Katniss Everdeen has my number_. “It was warm when I took it out of the dryer,” she says, though there’s no real defensiveness in her voice. I still hold my hands up in mock surrender.   
  
“I like it,” I say. “It suits you.”  
  
She glances off to the side, and for a moment I think I’ve lost her. But then she rolls her eyes, and it’s so unguardedly Katniss that I’m taken aback at the idea that what I’m seeing is just genuinely Katniss. For the first time.   
  
“You’re making dinner?” I ask, and I must be unable to keep the surprise out of my voice, because her smile drops from pleased to a little shy.   
  
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re always cooking. I thought you’d like a night off.”   
  
“That’s sweet of you.”   
  
This earns me a scowl, which makes me laugh. Then she softens. “Hey,” she says. “Thank you. For being patient with me. I --” she thinks for a moment and then nods. “Thanks, is all.”   
  
“Of course,” I say. “What did you make?”   
  
“Just stew,” she says. “Don’t get your hopes up.”  
  
“I had Everdeen stew all weekend in Twelve,” I remind her. “My hopes are already up.”   
  
She tucks the corners of her lips down, clearly trying to hide her smile, but that’s all right. I saw it. “How was work?” she asks.   
  
“Good,” I answer dumbly. I can’t even remember how my day was, I’m so happy, so _relieved_ to see her like this. “You’re happy today,” I say dumbly.   
  
She ducks her head, caught. “Letter from Prim,” she says. “She sent it before we left.”   
  
“Yeah?” I ask. I go to take the lid off the pot to look at her stew, but she shoos my hands away.   
  
“Would you _give me a minute_?” she teases, but then she takes pity on me, picking up a spoon from the ceramic rest on the counter and scooping a little bit up. She actually goes like she’s about to put it up to my lips, but then she thinks better of it, blushing furiously. “Go on, then,” she says, lowering the spoon towards my hand, like she’s put out by this. “It’s hot,” she mutters, a last ditch attempt to keep pretending to be frustrated.   
  
“What did Prim say?” I ask. She keeps trying to not look at me when I blow on the spoonful, but she can’t seem to manage it. I’d be lying if I said my stomach wasn’t doing elated little somersaults.   
  
“That she’s in love with Pyra Hawthorne,” she says. It’s all fact, suddenly. No more of that smile I saw earlier. Instead, her jaw is set, as if she’s waiting for me to argue. Clearly, there’d be nothing more natural in the universe for Prim to feel. Foolishly, I want to ask if she really thinks that I’d think anything of this. If she remembers that Rye is married to a man. Only, at my smile, she barrels forward, her face softening as it melts into excitement. “They haven’t told Mom yet,” she says. “They were so nervous to tell me to stop calling her Rory. That’s why Prim wasn’t looking me in the eyes,” she says. “So the letter was the compromise. But -- Rory isn’t Rory. Rory is Pyra. She and Prim are in love. And I’m the first one Prim told.”   
  
“Oh! That’s great!” I say. “I wondered about it. They were affectionate.”   
  
“They’ve always been like that,” Katniss says, grabbing the towel from the oven handle and wiping at some mess on the counter I don’t see. “I just thought -- since I left, I figured she’d never trust me again. Not with anything important, at least,” she says. “But she did. I don’t know. I’m just happy.”   
  
“I’m glad,” I say. “And it’s wonderful. Really.”   
  
She he rolls her eyes again, which I’m sure is because she wouldn’t ever use that word to describe anything. Even this.   
  
“What did you bring home?” she asks, already making for the little white bag. My stomach flips again. _Home_. Home. She groans at the sight of the cheese buns, giving me a smile. “They’re perfect,” she says.   
  
“They’re fresh,” I say, going to dump the flowers from my right fist into my pocket or the trash, or something. “From the last batch before I left.”   
  
“What’s that?” she asks.   
  
“Nothing,” I say.   
  
She flicks her eyebrows up in a challenge.   
  
“They’re just -- flowers. For you,” I admit. “I don’t know. I just thought -- it’s dumb. Forget it.”   
“No. I want them,” Katniss says, and I can’t do anything other than hold them out obediently.  Of course I can’t. They’re for her, anyway. And she’s so happy. She could ask me to sink a knife into my chest and if she did it with that smile on her face, I’d have no choice but to do it. 

There’s another one of those smiles when she plucks them from my palm. “Thank you,” she says softly.   
  
And then she rises up on tiptoe to tuck one of the blossoms behind my ear, her small hand so cold when she traces the hair down the back of my neck on her way back down. Not that that’s why I shiver. I’m surprised by the urge to catch her by the waist and cover her with little kisses. I manage not to, though, even as she drops back onto the balls of her feet.   
  
“There,” she says, nodding decisively, though she’s a bit shyer than she was just a few moments ago. Is she blushing? I probably shouldn’t mention it.   
  
“Are you blushing?”   
  
_Fact: I am, apparently, incapable of playing it cool._  
  
“No,” she says, refusing to look at me. “I’m not.”   
  
“You are,” I continue, and I have no idea why I can’t just shut the fuck up for once, because there’s no way that it’s a good idea to tease her when she’s so rarely like this. “Katniss Everdeen likes a man with flowers in his hair,” I continue, my voice low, like I’m taking notes for a show on public television. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”   
  
I’m hoping for another one of those laughs. I’ll be honest-- I always am. But I don’t get one. Instead, she bites her lower lip and nods, and suddenly the air between us is charged. It’s strange, the way she’s looking at me. New, but already something I know I’ll try every chance I get to see again.  
  
I can’t think of a time I’ve worn flowers before, but that’s not on purpose. I hardly cared about presenting as masculine when I was in college. I think I still have the lipstick that I always wore with the grey and gold shirt she’s wearing now. I think of the box of makeup in the bathroom downstairs, wondering how she would react if I were to come out some morning with bright red lips, like when I lived on campus. She likes my nail polish. Maybe she’d like that, too. Maybe that would earn me another one of these looks. 

 

“What?” I ask, any bravado in my voice worn away. She still hasn’t looked away from me, and I know for a fact that I don’t stand up well to this much scrutiny. “Why are you--?”   
  
“You’re just -- not like other men,” she says.   
  
I laugh. “Plenty of men wear flowers in their hair, Katniss. I need to get you out more often.”   
  
I mean, I guess it makes sense that it would be different in District Twelve. I’d eat my shoe if tough, strong Gale Hawthorne has ever worn a skirt.  
  
She scowls. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t like just any man with flowers in his hair. Just you.”   
  
Oh. I wet my lips, wanting to make some kind of stupid comment -- _what’s this about liking me?_ \-- but I don’t. I can’t. She’s stretching up onto her toes and putting another one of the little blossoms behind my other ear. 

  
“They’re a nice touch, though,” she says.   
  
And then she’s kissing me. We’ve kissed before -- two or three times. Not enough that I’m even a little prepared for it, even as I lean down to meet her mouth. She’s cut herself off with this strange breathy laugh every time, but not today. My hands go to her waist and she gasps softly, her weight pressing into my hands as she tries to find balance again, arched up on her toes the way she is. It hits me how uncomfortable this must be for her. 

  
“Is this\--?” I try asking, but she’s still kissing me, even -- especially -- now that her lips have parted on top of mine, and the rest of my question is forgotten. Yes, of course it’s okay. Nothing in the world has ever been more okay. She curls her fingers into the fabric of my work shirt, tugging me down even closer to her. For a moment, I can’t believe that we’ve never done this before. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, but still so lovely that my heart threatens to burst with it.   
  
She drops back down onto the flats of her feet, sighing contently, and I grin, which makes her roll her eyes yet again, even if she’s smiling, too. Even as she shoos me off to change out of my work clothes.   
  
“Do I smell like the bakery?” I ask.   
  
“Right,” she says, her smile betraying the sarcasm. “Because that would be awful.”   
  
I laugh.   
  
“ _Go_ ,” she says. “I need to finish.”   
  
When I look over my shoulder, I catch her with the tips of her fingers pressed against her lips, and I grin all the way to my room. 

  
  


She’s singing when I come back to the kitchen. I don’t recognize the song. I don’t even recognize her singing voice. I’ve never heard it before. But now that I have --   
  
I lean heavily against the doorway, frozen in my happiness, and listen to her sing softly.   
  
“I know you’re there,” she says after a moment, and I think my heart stops entirely. But then she starts to sing again, even as she dishes out our dinner. I sigh happily, coming behind her to set the table, and she gives me a wary look, like she’s working out whether or not she should lecture me for helping. I hold my hands up in surrender. “I know you could do it yourself,” I say gently, mostly kidding. “I just want to help.”   
  
She softens. “Just help me eat it,” she says, taking the forks from my hand and nodding towards the table. I do, and I try to sit patiently until she joins me. Just like always, she sits across from me at the table. Only, I’m keenly aware of her today as she stares down at her bowl. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since she’s actually seemed to enjoy her food. Or because she keeps glancing up at me when she thinks I won’t notice, eyes not so much gray as they are silver, framed by those thick dark eyelashes.   
  
“Thank you for cooking,” I say. 

  
“I always cooked at home,” she says. “I mean, until Prim got big enough to kick me out of the kitchen,” she amends, dragging her spoon through her bowl. “She doesn’t like my stew.”   
  
“Why not?” I ask, making a bit of a show of tilting my bowl to get what’s left onto my spoon. “I think it’s amazing.”   
  
She snorts. It’s a tiny thing, undignified and over as soon as it starts. And then she starts laughing in earnest, and manages something to the effect, I think, of Prim hating her stew because it’s all she ate for four years. But then she manages to pull a straight face.   
  
“You’ll get sick of it, too,” she assures me.   
  
I open my mouth to make some smartass response, but -- she’s sitting there, lips still fighting to pull up into a smile, eyes shining with humor. Clearly, she’s waiting, raising her eyebrows in challenge. It’s my turn to make a joke, but I can’t come up with anything. Couldn’t possibly be asked to with her sitting in front of me like this. I think she notices this, because she ducks her head to look at her stew, all too satisfied, and I manage a weak,   
  
“I -- ah. I mean, no. I won’t.”   
  
Her eyes flash up towards me.   
  
“Get sick of your stew, I mean,” I amend.   
  
She shifts, shoulders straightening as she looks me dead in the eyes, challenging me to keep arguing with her, even as she smiles. My mouth goes dry all over again.   
  
“Don’t speak too soon,” she says.   
  
I nod, grateful for the excuse to be silent.   
  
  
Later, once the dishes have been cleared and we’ve exhausted every excuse to spend time in the kitchen, she leans against the counter, looking me dead in the eyes, holding herself as if she’s about two feet taller than she is.   
  
“Come up to say goodnight,” she commands, as if I don’t do this every night. At my confused look, she grins, and amends, “You don’t have to wait. You can come up now.”   
  
So I do. She scoots to the far end of the bed, leaving plenty of room for me. I sit down, stretching my legs out in front of me, and take a look around while she settles in. She found my favorite book. Of all the ones on the shelves downstairs, she’s picked my favorite. It looks like she’s about a third of the way through it, based on how deep into the pages the bookmark I had been using when I reread it last is. Did I mention liking it, or does she just have good taste? Either way, the book stays on the end table. 

  
“Tell me about your day,” she requests. So I do. I tell her about the bakery. About the total failure of a new pastry I was trying to make. She inches closer to me as I do.   
  
“Any requests?” I joke, realizing too late that this is my question, and she’ll likely trick me into telling another story with her next turn. “I’m bound to run out of ideas eventually.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” she says. “I miss goat cheese.”   
  
“Goat cheese?” I repeat. Of all the things in the world for Katniss to miss, goat cheese never crossed my mind.   
  
She nods. “And apples. I know you have apples here, but they’re not the same.”   
  
“They’re not,” I agree.   
  
She rests her head against my arm, which settles it -- I won’t be moving any time soon.   
  
“Would you make me something with goat cheese?” she asks. “And apples?”   
  
“Yes,” I say, and she smiles, melting against me a little further.   
  
“Good,” she says. “Hey, Peeta?”   
  
“Hey, what?” I tease.   
  
“Would you tell me about school?” she asks. It’s the first request she’s seemed shy to make, and I don’t understand it at all, but I comply anyway, my hand coming up to stoke at her hair while I do. She gives a little content hum, eyes drooping while she listens to me ramble about essays and teachers.   
  
She’s trying hard to stay awake, but it’s a losing battle. I try to pull my hand away, just in case that helps, and she catches my wrist with her hand. “I like it,” she says. “Don’t stop. I mean -- not if you don’t want to.”   
  
“Okay,” I rasp, my fingertips brushing at her neck and making her shiver. “But shouldn’t I let you get some sleep?” 

  
“Mmph.”   
  
“You’re obviously tired,” I say. “I don’t want to keep you up.” 

 

“Then don’t,” she says as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. “Just stay.”   
  
“In here?” I ask dumbly.    
  
“Just for tonight,” she says, her face scrunching with her yawn.   
  
“I’d stay every night, if you wanted me to,” I say.   
  
This earns me the sleepiest of smiles, and she lays against me in earnest, sighing once her head is flat on my chest. She shared a bed with her sister in District Twelve. I shouldn’t get too far ahead of myself here. This isn’t saying anything about me, really. Just that she wants human contact. And who could blame her? She’s spent the last week practically alone.   
  
Only, then she cranes her neck to look up at me, smiling a little when she does. “Goodnight, Peeta,” she says, reaching up to cover one of my hands with hers. My heart tumbles a little in my chest. Katniss. In my house -- in bed with me. All because, what? I hit a button on a website. Added her to my cart, practically. Anyone else could have done that.   
  
_Just you_ , she had said earlier. She was talking about liking me with flowers in her hair. That she wouldn’t have liked another man with that same look. Again, I’m being ridiculous when I think that she probably wouldn’t have liked another man at all, but it’s hard not to. Because what if it was another man who had clicked on her face before I did? Would she be curled up around him right now, fast asleep?   
  
My stomach rolls as I realize the answer. No. She wouldn’t. Looking at her, face smooth with sleep, I wonder if she’d be able to rest at all. 

 

_ Fact: 80% of brides don’t make it through their second year in the Capitol.  _

 

I throw myself out of bed just in time to make it to the bathroom, and press my forehead against the cool metal of the sink faucet. 

 

_ Fact: every Capitolite throws away the toys they know they’re done playing with.  _

 

I grit my teeth but it’s no use. I throw up anyway.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay dudes I just spent an hour uploading this because... i don't even know why lmao. Sorry if you got 18 chapter update notifications. It's just one. 
> 
> A -- my beta, Wooly, is phenomenal and manages to turn my half formed ideas into pure magic. 
> 
> B -- Pyra Hawthorne is a trans woman, not a genderbend. I love her. 
> 
> C -- not to be combative, but if you're gonna review about Peeta being too naive, or wrong that he should feel guilty for being a slaveowner, please, for the love of god, just bounce. I've heard all these complains on every chapter I've posted and I literally don't care at all lmao sorry. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's reading still! I'm on tumblr at fempeeta :)


	11. Chapter 11

            The front door bangs shut just as quickly as it opened. I stand and wait for a moment. It’s not like I’ve been in here just waiting around for him to find me or anything, it’s just that I think Peeta might get a real kick out of it, me standing here in front of the stove looking and acting for all the world like I’m a real wife. For once.

 

            When we caught up on the laundry yesterday -- another example of me acting like a real wife -- I hung his work aprons up on the back of the door so they wouldn’t get all tangled up in the rest of our clothes when we put them in the dryer. When I checked on them this afternoon there was still one there. So I grabbed it, tied it around my waist, put some spoons in the icebox on a small plate on the top shelf, and I set to work.

 

            I make quite a picture I bet, wearing Peeta’s apron and jeans, an old flannel that belonged to my father once with the sleeves pushed up around my elbows, and my hair tied away from my eyes with a bandana that I can’t quite place as being either mine or Peeta’s. Like the kind of wife they try to sell in the catalogues. I think I mentioned something about enjoying cooking in my entry when they gave me a whole three sentences to describe myself. It wasn’t exactly a lie -- cooking isn’t something I don’t enjoy-- when I have ingredients -- but “loves to cook” hasn’t ever exactly been the first description anyone would use for me.   
  
            So, all right. Maybe Peeta won’t laugh. But there’s this look I get, sometimes. The same look that I got the day I got the letter from Prim and made dinner. It was like he couldn’t quite believe I was real. I think -- I hope -- that what I did today will be enough to get that impressed look out of him again. Not that that’s what I was thinking of when I went up the hill and dragged home a bag stuffed with jars and lids and strawberries -- lots and lots of fresh strawberries. And lemons, which seem to be a lot easier to get here than they ever were in District Twelve. Just like everything.

 

            Everything else I needed I found in Peeta’s kitchen. In _my_ kitchen now, I guess. Lots of the fancy, refined sugar he likes, and a bunch of pots. I’ve got three on the stove right now: two with hot water, one of those waiting to process the jars I boiled already and another, smaller one with the metal rings for the jar. They clink against each other in the boiling water but it’s an easy enough sound to tune out while I strain to listen for Peeta’s footsteps. In the third pot, the one closest to me, is my bubbling fruit and sugar mixture,

 

            Peeta isn’t getting any closer. I’m just about to call out a _hello_ and tease him for taking so long out there when I finally hear him say something.

 

            “No, look,” he’s saying. “I know what you’re saying. I do. It’s just that--”

  
            He stops and sighs, clearly having been interrupted.

 

            And then has to defend himself. “I’m not _huffing_! I just wish you’d let me finish saying what I’m trying to say.” His voice is too calm -- like he’s practiced this several times before. Like it’s never worked. “No, I’m not.”   
  
            I drag the wooden spoon through the almost-boiling jam and then set it on top of the pot, hurrying over to the doorway so that I can wave Peeta on in. Whoever he’s talking to, he’ll be more comfortable sitting at the table by the window than he is out there in the hallway.

 

            He’s barely even made it into the house. He’s about three or four feet in from the door, his eyes on the hardwood floor-- or his boots maybe, I can’t tell which. He’s pressing the cellphone against the side of his face with one hand and the other is tugging through his curls, not looking half as gentle as it ought to be.   
  
            “Yes,” he says gently. His shoulders slump. “Because--!” he tries to argue, but loses steam far too quickly, folding himself down just a little bit further. I’ve seen this before. Not on Peeta, of course. Never on Peeta. But on Community Home kids, who always wore their sleeves a little bit long for the season. The look on his face -- it’s identical to how the butcher’s daughters would react when anyone started yelling at school.

  
            “I know. Yeah. Yes. That’s not -- no, I know.” He doesn’t see me when I wave, not even when I clear my throat to get his attention.

 

I can’t place why this bothers me as much as it does, just that it _does._ And it’s not like I can go grab him by the arm and pull him into the kitchen with me, either. I have to check on my jam but I hate to leave him out there like that, so once I’m back in the kitchen and I’m sure my jam isn’t burning onto the side of the pot, I fake a coughing fit just to give him an excuse to come in.   
  
            Clearly whatever it is that he’s trying to say, he’s been interrupted several times already. I can hear the exasperation in his voice even when I return to the kitchen. “I _get_ it,” he says. “For fuck’s sake.”

 

It’s quiet for a long moment. “I know. I’m sorry. But I feel like you’re not hearing what I’m saying. I don’t --” he stops again, sighing. “Well I don’t . .  really think that’s fair, calling me that. I wasn’t the only one who yelled at Gramma’s funeral. I --” he stops again.

  
            Peeta did yell at his grandmother’s funeral. I didn’t catch all of it, because I was sitting with Klaus and he was telling me stories about District Four, but I caught the tail end, when he raised his voice to match hers. And then we left, and while he’s heard from his father once or twice, he’s clearly not heard from his mother just yet. Until now. I give the jam another hard stir and move for the sink, where I’m as loud as possible while I stack the pots I used to boil the new jars I picked up at the market.

 

            “No. That’s not what I’m saying. I just . . . That’s not true,” he says. “It’s not. I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”   
  
            It’s quiet for a beat.

 

            “Because -- well. I shouldn’t have to prove --” he stammers. I’ve never heard him so unable to finish a sentence before as long as I’ve known him. “Well I don’t care what Plutarch says,” he adds. “It’s not his life. I should be able to--”

 

And then I hear it.

 

            “ _Mom_ ,” he says.

           

            I don’t use that word if I can help it, and I haven’t for as long as I can remember. But I’m certain that it isn’t supposed to wobble and beg like that. Even with my mother being as pathetic of an excuse for a parent as she was, it’s never sounded like that when Prim said it. Not even once.

 

I haven’t ever heard Peeta’s voice like that before. He’s saying more, but I don’t hear any of it. I flip the burner off and rip the pot off of the heat, moving it to the eye that hasn’t been warmed up at all today. It’ll be a pain to get the jam to boil again, but that hardly matters. Nothing matters, really, except for getting as close to Peeta as possible.

 

He doesn’t even see me coming. He’s looking down at his shoes, making soft little noises of affirmation about whatever it is his witch of a mother is saying, and then he says-- “But I just -- _uff!”_

 _  
_ The _uff_ isn’t for his mother. It’s for me. That’s apparently the noise I’m rewarded with when I press him against the front door and slam my lips against his. And slam really is the right word for it. Once I’m already kissing him, I think about how I ought to be more gentle with this boy. That it’s what he deserves -- what he’s always deserved. Someone who will be kind to him. I try to soothe the initial shock of my mouth against his with another kiss, this one feather light, and he tries to kiss me back, but I can very faintly hear the shrill voice of his mother on the other end. She’s kicking herself up into a panic I bet, now that he’s not responding so often, and that won’t do.   
  
            I duck my head a little, dusting him with more little kisses. One on his jawline, and that earns me a shiver, so I don’t stop. I reach the hollow just beneath his ear and he chokes out an--   
  
            “Oh.” And then, “I --   _noheyIgottagomom_ ,” all comes out in a rush.

 

            I don’t let up while he fumbles around with the phone. I allow myself to fall to the flats of my feet for a moment and let out a sigh against his throat. It’s either that or it’s the kiss I press to the warm and slightly damp skin there, but _something_ results in an almighty shudder from the boy. And then his phone is on the floor, and he makes no attempt to reach for it.

 

            For a moment I feel smug. Powerful, even. But what have I done that’s anything even remotely close to something I ought to be proud of? I ambushed someone who was already upset. Caught him off guard. Anyone could get him pinned up against the wall like this when he’s already upset. And here I am, selfish enough to think of _victory_ when I’ve got a boy pinned against the wall, shivering against me.

 

            I’m about to step away. To tell him that I’m sorry and go hide in my room. But then his hands find my waist, warm and strong but not too tightly. Like I’d turn to mist if he dared to do something like grab or squeeze. But he’s anchoring me -- closer to him, helping to balance my weight.

 

            “Katniss,” he sighs, maybe a little pleading, and I rise up on my toes to kiss him again.

 

            It isn’t like I haven’t kissed him before. I’ve actually done it a few times, now, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere near the realm of getting used to it. Especially not when my hands find his hair. He’s so pleased with this development that he actually _hums_ when I trace a curl at the back of my neck. And then I use it to anchor him in place while I kiss him again, and slam myself back down to the ground at the gasp that escapes him.   
  
            “I’m sorry-!” I try to say, but his hands are still on my waist, still holding me, and they don’t fall away to let me leave. If I tried, he would let me go, I’m sure, but he doesn’t seem to be looking forward to it, exactly.   
  
            “Sorry for _what_?” he asks, incredulous. “I -- especially like _that_ ,” he stammers. “You can kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

 

            He looks dazed. At least, for the half second I manage to actually look at him before I’m kissing him again. I don’t know what I’m doing. Especially not when he sighs again -- is that what it was the first time, a sigh? -- and my mouth feels even clumsier than it usually does when I try to mimic his positioning.

 

I’m not completely clueless, at least. I have these little murmuring sounds that are escaping him to go by, and then there’s this strange hot pinch, low in my stomach, that only gets worse -- better? -- when his hand skates from my waist to my lower back. I’m surprised by how badly I want for it to stay there. To stay there and to keep exploring, all at once. But his hand comes back to rest at my waist and I’m left with electric nerve endings.   
  
            I’ve kissed him before, but not like this. Never like this. I pull away just enough to catch my breath and he starts babbling immediately. “Oh. Oh, _Katniss,_ ” he hums. “You taste like _strawberries_.”   
  
            He sounds wonderstruck. Like this is something incredible that I’ve managed to pull off. Or, maybe more accurately, like I myself am something incredible. He’s wrong, of course, but I think he’s been interrupted enough today so I wait until he’s finished to say--  
  
            “Making jam.”   
  
            My voice is strangely breathy. I almost wish I had something pretty to say too, but I don’t think I could string together a full sentence just yet. Peeta apparently doesn’t have this problem.

 

“Like strawberries,” he insists. “And sunshine. Like summer, when it’s just starting,” he continues, and I think he’s talking just for the sake of talking, but I don’t exactly mind it. “I ever tell you how much I love strawberries?” he asks.

 

I manage to shake my head, I guess, because he grins.   
  
            “They’re my favorite,” he murmurs. “I didn’t even know you _made_ jam.”

 

            When I head back for the kitchen, Peeta stumbles after me, like he’s still dazed. Of course, he follows me. I think he’d follow me just about anywhere, and especially now after that show I just put on. I turn the heat back on and grab the wooden spoon, pretending like my cheeks aren’t still flushed.   
  
            “How was work?” I ask. It’s the plainest question, and not even the one I actually want answered.

 

            Just as I would have guessed, he says “It was good, thanks,” but then he thinks better of it. Like maybe I earned more honesty about his workday now that my tongue has been in his mouth. “Do you remember the wedding I was telling you about?” he asks. “The couple that wanted all those cookies?”

 

            I hum the affirmative, stirring my jam as it starts to heat again. I don’t really need to keep it moving at this point, but I want something to focus on other than Peeta who, as it turns out, stays very pink for a very long time.

  
            “Well, one of the grooms came in over the weekend,” he says, sighing. “He looked at the sugar cookies that were already done and told my intern that the letters were all too close together,” he says. “So we almost lost the sale, but the new owner happened to be there, and she told him that she _guaranteed_ that once I got my hands on his order, they’d be perfect.”   
  
            “You didn’t get any say in it?” I ask.

 

            “Oh, of course not. Never,” he says, clearly teasing. “So, I was in the back all day -- all day,” he says again, for emphasis. “And I had to paint the same initials and cherry blossoms for eight hours, while also trying to explain to the intern why his frosting ran together in the first place, and why we don’t use toothpicks when we decorate quite as religiously as he seems to think we ought to. And then he asks me why we don’t just _buy_ fondant, and cut the letters out of it,” he says. “Store bought fondant!” he repeats, incredulous. “On a sugar cookie the size of the button on my coat!”

 

            I’m quiet for a moment too long, and he adds, voice a little softer, “Store bought fondant is disgusting. Hell, even the kind I make isn’t amazing. Not to mention how hard they would dry. No one wants to crack their teeth on the groom’s initial.”

 

            I’m not sure what I feel, now that I’m not pinning him up against the doorway. I know it’s nowhere near the same sort of bravery that compelled me earlier. And that my stomach is doing this little flip whenever he catches me glancing up at him.

 

            “Looks like you were busy today,” he says, maybe realizing I don’t have an opinion on fondant. This gets me to glance up at him and he holds my eyes, blue and kind and steady, begging me to not look away.

 

            But I do. He steps a little closer, like he’s afraid some chasm will open between us if he doesn’t do something to stop it. Like he wants to make sure he’s on the right side of it when the ground splits.   
  
            “I went up the hill,” I say, and my voice is a little hoarse. I realized when I finished mashing all the berries I had hulled that I probably should have asked him if he even liked jam first. But what he said earlier makes me think that he must, so I don’t want to ask a stupid question even if that leaves me with nothing to say.

 

            That doesn’t matter, though. Peeta has something to say. He always does.

 

            “You’re really something,” he says, and his voice is so soft. Too soft, almost. Like he’s in awe. Like I did anything to deserve that. “Can I help?” he asks. “This burner is kinda tricky. I found that if you--” he cuts himself off when I throw my arm out to block to the hand that reaches for the stove.

 

“Don’t!!” I hear myself cry out. Peeta holds his breath, which can’t possibly be a good sign, and my heart gallops in my chest as I turn around, my spoon pointed out at him. He’s so close -- closer that I thought he would be -- and winds up with a red jam stain right in the center of his white shirt. He lets out his breath in a little sigh, eyes glancing down to my spoon and then back up, holding mine again. “It’s hot,” I mumble.

 

He doesn’t look upset, or anything. Just . . . baffled. “All right,” he says, his voice so quiet. “I’m not gonna touch it,” he assures me. And then one of his hands comes out to tuck one of the twists in my hair behind my ear, even if my bandana would keep it from falling into my face. It’s almost like he’s got to touch _something_ if not the stove. His fingertips trail down the side of my cheek to my ear, where I kissed him earlier. Feather light. Not like I’m fragile, exactly, so much as like I’m something he ought to be very careful with, even if I don’t understand why.

              
            “I . . . don’t want you to get hurt,” I say, trying hard to not be distracted by the way he’s touching me.   
  
            He smiles suddenly. A wide, genuine grin. “Oh,” he says. “And do you think I make a habit of that, when you aren’t here to save me?” he teases.   
  


            If this were Gale, I’d be in for a lecture about how he can take care of himself. Or Prim -- she’d tell me that she isn’t a kid anymore, and that I need to let her handle things. I wait for more, for Peeta to tell me why this assumption is wrong, but he isn’t calling me on anything, really. He’s just teasing. Kidding around. That’s what he does. I shouldn’t be surprised.

 

            But then, nothing about Peeta is truly surprising, when you get down to it. It’s just different. He’s just different. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, still smiling at me, maybe a little concerned about why I haven’t teased back yet. But what am I supposed to say? _No, I don’t think you burn yourself on the stove, but I think you shouldn’t let your mother speak to you like that_.

 

            “Because, you know, I lost feeling in my hands years ago,” he teases. But he’s still touching. I swallow, leaning my cheek into his hand, but only to let him know that I’m just about to turn away. I stir the jam hard and fast, trying to not let him distract me and failing at it miserably.

 

“There’s this dishwasher at the bakery,” he continues. “It gets so hot. Has to, to sanitize the dishes. But -- sometimes you need a specific bowl before it’s done cooling off. And that’s when your fingertips get sacrificed,” he continues.

 

            I can feel it. That strange, unfamiliar urge rising up inside of me. I want to kiss him. Again. I try to tamp it down. I can’t just do that every time I don’t know what to say, or else we won’t ever get anything done. I’ll just be kissing him all the time. But the wave of affection for Peeta Mellark rises, and I can’t help myself from smiling at him.

 

            “We need to fix that, then,” I say. My voice feels strange. Too soft. Not my own.

 

            He laughs. “Oh, man. Those appliances don’t even stand a chance against you,” he says. “It’s not even a fair fight.”

  
            What can I possibly say? I don’t want anything -- anyone -- to hurt him, but he’s so content to stand around and joke with me about dishwashers and ovens, and I don’t particularly want to ruin that smile for myself. Not when he’s giving it out so easily.

 

            “Sometimes it doesn’t have to be,” I tell him. “Can you get a spoon from the icebox?” I ask.. “I need to check something.”   
  
            “Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he says, maybe a little confused that I’m finished joking so quickly. “Spoons in the freezer?” he asks, almost more to himself. Maybe he thinks he’ll lose me completely if he doesn’t chatter while he does what I asked. “I might need to ask you for a jam making lesson, sometime.”   
  
            “If you bring blackberries home, I’ll show you,” I say, taking just one of the cold spoons from his hand, scooping some of the hot mixture onto it, and asking him to put it back in the freezer for me. He’s happy to do as told, and pauses, once the spoon is back in the freezer, to scrawl something onto the shopping list he keeps and underline it twice. I can’t help my smile.

 

            I try to explain to him what it means, how the jam slid off of the spoon in a sheet rather than in drops, and he’s trying, but it’s hard to explain without showing him how else it could look. “You’ll see,” I say. “When we start from the beginning.”   
  
            “I’ll look forward to it,” he says warmly.   
  
            And then he kisses me.

 

            It isn’t a desperate breathless thing, like the one in the hall. It’s quick. Just him bending down and pressing a kiss against my lips on his way to the sink. And it feels --   
  
            Natural. Like of course this is what we ought to do. He looks pleased with himself. Clearly, I haven’t been giving him enough kisses. For all my jokes about being an awful wife, they ring true when I realize how starved he is for affection.

 

                                                                        . . .

 

            It would be an understatement to say that I’m not sure what happened with Katniss. Since I walked in the door today, something has been off. I don’t know if delicate would be the right word. It’s just that the Katniss who sits beside me now, knees pulled to her chest, hidden inside the shirt I brought home from a concert five years ago, is vastly different from the Katniss who pressed me against the front door and kissed me senseless just an hour or two ago.

 

            When she finished making her jam, she went upstairs to wash the sugar off of her arms, and I made sandwiches for dinner. It felt ridiculous even as I did it. The kind of food I ate in college. Not nearly what I should be making for Katniss, my _wife_ , who I still think barely gets enough to eat even when I’m the one who loads her plate up most nights.

 

            Still, she seemed plenty happy to sit on the floor in front of the couch with me and eat the peanut butter and jam sandwiches. She even explained, with this teasing glint in her eyes, what the difference is between jam and jelly. And then she grabbed the glass of milk I had set out in front of her. Goat milk, just like she mentioned missing the other night.

 

            I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t mapped it all out in my head. She would recognize it, and I Would get to tell her the story about how I drove across town after work today to get it. How that was why I took off early from work. And she would say something along the lines of it not being important enough to merit the trip. That bit was important -- I was going to tell her that it’s important because _she’s_ important.   
  
            And, yeah. I hoped that would earn me another one of those kisses.

 

            But that’s not what happened. Katniss did recognize the milk, I guess, because a little shattered, _“Oh_ ,” escaped her. But other than that, she didn’t comment on it.

 

            I wait, though. For her to say something -- anything. Even just for her to tell me that I’m ridiculous. She’s fond of that one. _Ridiculous_. And I’m fond of the way her lips curve up around it, like it’s nothing negative at all. But that’s not what I get.

 

            It’s my own fault. I should have stayed in the car. Let Mom finish what she had to say there. Instead, I dragged Katniss into it. What did I expect, anyway?

 

            Well -- all right. I didn’t expect Katniss to hear me at all. I kind of thought that Mom would hear me moving around, hear the door close behind me, and let me off so she didn’t feel like she had to tell me to tell Katniss hi. And then I would give her the goat milk and she’d be happy, and we’d have a nice evening. But that’s clearly not what happened. And now . . . what?   
  
            I forced her hand. She kissed me because she felt like she had to. And now -- well, I’ll be lucky if she ever actually _wants_ to again. I open my mouth to apologize. For what, I’m not sure. But then I hear the way the breath she sucks in catches, and then. Oh. Oh, no.

 

            She’s crying. Really crying. What happened, what exactly I did wrong, doesn’t matter. Just that I did something to leave her sniffling. She wipes at her face roughly -- too roughly, for my liking, even though it’s not for me to say, and I catch her wrist before I can stop myself.

 

            “Hey,” I murmur. “Careful.”

  
            Her gray eyes widen, wet with tears, like she’s in awe that I can even see her. I use the pad of my thumb on the hand that isn’t holding her wrist, and brush the tears away from one of her cheekbones. Her whole body racks, now. I pause, making sure it’s not something I’ve done, and she tips forward, pressing into the touch.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” I ask, even though I know what the answer will be, which is her shaking her head, sending the twists that were just barely tucked behind her ears bounding. But what I’m not prepared for is how startled she looks.

 

It scares me, too. Whatever it is that she’s working through in her head, it’s serious.

Beyond anything I can comprehend just watching her. She chokes out an, “I don’t--” and then stops herself, shaking her head again.

 

            _You don’t what_? I want to ask. Want to beg her for some sort of explanation, some sort of accusation. Something that I can apologize for. But clearly, that isn’t something she can offer me. I gather her up in my arms before I even really realize what I’m doing.

 

            She’s so _small_. Too small, I think, for not anywhere near the first time. Especially as she shakes, pressing herself further into me. I shuffle us up onto the couch, still holding her. I’m afraid it’s too tightly, but every time I try to loosen my grip, she seems to stiffen a little, like she’s anticipating for me to let go of her entirely. Only, that won’t happen. Not as long as it’s up to me.

 

Those gasping, shuddering breaths seem to quiet some when I begin to trace patterns on her shoulder with my thumb, so I don’t stop. Circles, first. Small, and then bigger until it spills over onto her back. By the time I start to move counterclockwise, the shaking seems to have mostly stopped.

 

            I can still feel the warmth of her breath soaking in through my shirt. Speaking is a bad idea. Anything I say might completely shatter the stillness. But I speak anyway, because that’s how much of an asshole I am.

 

            “I’m sorry,” I say.   
  
            She shakes her head, not even withdrawing from my chest. That’s how I can tell that something really is wrong. Normally, Katniss would take the first opportunity to get away from me. I don’t mean that in a self pitying way, or anything. Just that I’ve never known her to cling to me like this.

 

            “Is there anything I can--?”   
  
            She shakes her head again, not even letting me finish my offer. What she wants, for maybe the first time since I’ve met her, is for me to hold her. I could never tell her no. Not about anything, ever, but especially not about this.

 

            I’m not sure how long we stay like that. It’s different. Seeing her like this. The sort of vulnerable that you know could never, in any world, be on accident. It’s not the sort of vulnerable that I’ve ever been. I don’t so much make the choice to let my guard down around someone as my guard makes it for me, and that’s around when it all goes to hell. But Katniss is different. I know it means something, her pulling herself this close to me.

 

            I don’t know when I fell asleep, but the clock on the DVD player reads _12:02_ , and my mouth is awfully dry. Katniss is asleep, still clinging to me, but that angle her neck is resting at can’t be comfortable. Though she comes close to convincing me otherwise when I say her name and she shifts somehow even closer to me.

 

I wonder when the last time someone got close enough to hold her was. It’s happened before, I think, if she’s anywhere near as comfortable as she seems to be. But it must have been some time ago.   
  
            It’s not like it matters. She told me that she and Gale weren’t together, and I believe her. Whatever their relationship was, it feels much more complicated than them just being friends, but there’s no way she would have had him over for dinner when we were in Twelve and kissed _me_ at the end of the night if she were in love with him. But someone has held her like this. Rocked her like this.

 

Was it her father? My heart aches at the thought. Has no one really comforted her in so long?

. Maybe --   
  
            Maybe Katniss really has been lonely, like I thought when I first saw her picture. Not lonely enough that that’s why she signed up to be a bride, of course. But lonely, all the same. Lonely enough that she’s willing to take comfort in me, because I’m the only option.

 

            Or -- maybe it’s something other than that. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about.

 

            I try to wake her again, and she grumbles. Just the visual of Katniss, grumbly and scowling, is familiar enough that I feel myself breathe out a laugh. It’s not funny. Just a relief.

  
            “Pee _ta,”_ she huffs.

 

            “I just gotta get you in bed,” I tell her, my voice quiet.

 

            “Can stay here,” she assures me, clearly more than half-gone already. “Mm. I don’t mind.”

How many sessions did I have with Doctor Hughes? Doing all those stupid physical therapy exercises that seemed childish when when I was so young. And my mother, who claims even now that her mocking when I was a teenager was meant to _encourage_ me. All of the bags of flour I insisted on hefting around when I started at the bakery, in spite of the Donners being so adamant that I shouldn’t strain myself because of my condition.

 

            Somehow, it all feels worth it when I’m able to lift Katniss. Her eyes blink open at the sudden change in altitude, and then she sees me and -- _fuck_ me -- she smiles. Just a little twist of her lips, barely anything at all. And her whole body relaxes against mine again as I settle her in, bridal style. One arm under her knees, the other at her back. And, yeah, maybe I don’t want to put her down.

 

            Especially not when her face ends up buried in my shoulder. She sighs, and I feel my heart tumble forward, where it rests against my ribcage and thrums happily, trying to get as close to her as possible.

 

            It’s exactly what I thought I’d never be. What my mom thought I’d never be. The sort of guy who has a wife to carry up the stairs. The sort of guy who _can_ carry his wife up the stairs. I think if she were fully awake, she’d protest it, tell me that I had to be careful with my leg. But as it stands now, she doesn’t complain.

 

            The stairs aren’t ever fun. And especially now, in the dark, with a whole Katniss in my arms. But I manage, careful and slow. By the time I reach the landing, with the soft glowing nightlight near the floorboards that seemed so silly before now, I can see her looking up at me. Sleepy, still, but so fucking gorgeous and just -- looking up at me.

 

“Hey,” I rasp.

 

“Hi,” she says, her voice soft.

 

When I set her on her bed, her arms lock around my neck, pulling me down with her. I panic a little, arms flying out to find purchase on the bed before I crush her, and she laughs, the sound warm and slow, arms still dragging me towards her.

  
            “Katniss-” I protest, and she arches up to kiss me. Is she still asleep? Or halfway there, at least. It’s a distracted thing, which only makes my heart swell all the more.

 

“Don’t go, okay?” she asks.

 

“Okay,” I say.

 

She moves to sit right behind me while I detach my leg, and I’m a little startled by it, the weight of her chin on my shoulder. She must be sitting on her knees to get that height, and I can imagine it so clearly that I’m endeared by that image without even being able to see her.

 

I want her to ask me about it. To say something. Anything. But she doesn’t. She never does. She just waits, pressed up against me. I’m very aware of the little noise that escapes me when I take the sleeve off, because she presses against me a little closer and says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear it,   
  
            “Does it hurt?”   
  
            I don’t know how to answer that. It’s not that I don’t know -- what remains of my left leg is sensitive. Painfully so. It has been ever since the amputation, and it will be for the rest of my life. The surprise is that she asked -- that she cares at all.

 

“‘s okay,” I assure her. Because it is, and what’s the use in worrying about wounds that are over a decade old, anyway?   
  
            And then she kisses my neck. Closer to my shoulder, really. The spot where the two meet. I don’t think it’s on purpose. Just because she wanted to kiss me, and that was where her lips wound up. Still, I can feel the tension I held in my body leak out through my sigh.   
  
            “Come to bed,” she asks, as if I’m not already here. As if anything could get me to leave.   
  
            I want to tease her. Tell her that I’ve never seen her this clingy. Only, that seems like a horrible idea -- exactly the thing to break the spell. So I don’t. Instead, I do as I’m asked, joining her in the center of the bed, where she kisses me goodnight.

 

            And then kisses me again. She’s sleepy, still. Clingy and touchy-feely. I’ve never seen her like this before. Not that I mind. Especially not when I feel her lips tug up into a smile against mine.

 

            “What?” I breathe.

 

            “Nothing,” she says.   
  
            It is something. Of course, it is. But she’s so happy that I don’t press. She can tell me, if she wants to. But if she doesn’t, somehow I think I’ll be all right, just for tonight.  

 

                                                                        . . .

  
            When I wake, it’s to the feeling of my bed dipping to accommodate another body. Peeta. I curl towards his warm form happily enough, still halfway asleep, but awake enough to hear the little laugh that escapes him, as if I’ve done something endearing. He laughs like this a lot. I think it’s possible I’ll never understand why.

 

            It’ll be a challenge to fall asleep again with so much sunlight streaming in through the windows. Especially when I know Peeta will have to leave for work soon. I lift my head, half expecting to find him grinning, ready to tease me for keeping him from his bakery when there are so many cookies to be frosted. But it’s not quite a grin I find on his face. A smile, sure, but a softer one. Something about this has me so embarrassed that I tuck my face back into his chest.   
  
            His hand comes up to my head automatically, maybe muscle memory from last night, and he cards through the twists in my hair, gathering them up and brushing them out of the way. I shiver when his fingertips make contact with the back of my neck, and he does it again.   
  
            “Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice a little rough. “Good morning.”   
  
            “Morning,” I return, but I’m not really paying attention, because I’m thinking about last night, and all the things I have to be embarrassed about. I’m a little foggy on most of it, but I know Peeta made sandwiches for dinner and that I started sobbing somewhere between the bread and the goat milk.

 

            To his everlasting credit, he at least didn’t seem to be terrified at the way I cried. I don’t really remember all the details of it, but clearly he kept holding me for quite some time. I don’t mind that. Even now, I feel safer than I have in years. He carried me up the stairs. Put me in bed and stayed here with me -- because I asked him to, I’m sure. I don’t really remember the details, but it felt so impossible good to just be with him last night. I remember that. So I must have demanded for him to stay, and he clearly did.   
  
            “When are you leaving?”

 

“I’m not,” he assures me, fingertips still on my skin, just barely touching. It’s almost too much, but not quite. “Thought I’d take the day off. That all right with you?”   
  
            He’s teasing, sure, but there’s a real note of . . . something, in there. My brain works hard to try to translate it into what he really means. That he’ll leave if I want him to, maybe. That he’s staying with me, for whatever reason.

 

Oh. Of course he’s staying for me. I want to think that it’s because he’s afraid to leave me alone, but I fear that it’s something a little harder to explain away **.**

 

I can’t explain why that makes me feel the way it does. Just that every time I catch him looking at me over breakfast, my cheeks feel hot and I have to focus really hard on something else, like spreading butter onto my toast or something. When he bites his lower lip, I lose control of the knife completely and squish a flat section into my bread.

 

It’s awful. Or it should be, at least. But it’s Peeta, and I have this nagging suspicion that even if I did let him in on this new and exciting weakness, he wouldn’t take advantage of it more than he already does naturally. And he can’t help that, I don’t think. Or I just wouldn’t want him to.   
  
  
            I’m a little dazed when I agree with his suggestion that, “If you’d like to . . . we could just -- hang out in the bed again.” It’s more comfortable than the couch for both of us, and my book is up here anyway. Not to mention the fact that there’s something incredibly luxurious about spending a morning in bed when you aren’t so sick you can’t work.   
              
            I back sit against the headboard, book in my lap, while Peeta scrolls through something on his phone, laughing every so often as he tries to explain jokes to me that require so much unpacking that he can’t possibly get through one before he starts to laugh again.

 

            Of course he isn’t going to work today. It’s clear why just in the way he looks at me.   
  
            This is how Peeta’s mind works. The wife he bought from District Twelve has what amounts to just one bad night in a string of many, but this time, she let him hold her while she cried. So, of course, the logical next step is to stay home from work, just to hang around her.

 

            Even when he’s keeping an eye on me, it’s so far from what I would expect. Not like I’m in trouble, just like he wants to be around me, wants to make sure that I’m all right. How could anyone ever be so kind? How could anyone ever think I’m special enough to warrant that?

 

            He reads off another joke, which makes me laugh just because of how funny he thinks it is, and then he says “oh, no, sorry. You’re reading. I’m just distracting you.”   
  
            “That’s all right,” I say.

  
            “Man,” he says. “You must have incredible focus. I like to read and all, but if someone was bugging me like this, I’d never finish anything.”

 

            Incredible focus. I read the opening paragraph for this chapter another two times and catch him watching me when I look up. He ducks his head, going a little pink.

 

            “Sorry. I was just . . . thinking. I’ll leave you alone after this, I promise. But there’s this bookstore up the hill,” he says. “I think you’d really like it. It’s--”

 

            That’s all I can take. I’m not sure where the book lands, but it’s not on the side table and I don’t really care enough to find out. And then I’m kissing him.

  


            I’m not sure where I get the idea to climb on top of him, but that’s where I find myself. Closer to his chest than his stomach as he sits up against the headboard. I thought that I would be able to have a shin on either side of him, but he’s so broad that I have a rough time. That’s when his hands come to my waist to help me find my balance -- or maybe it’s just because he wants to touch me.

 

            Yes. He doesn’t push, but he guides me down. “ ‘s okay,” he assures me. “You won’t hurt me.”   
  
            Still, it feels wrong, not having anything to balance my weight against. Just Peeta. But he smiles at me when I settle in, as if to prove that he’s more all right with this. Somewhere, vaguely, I think about how I’ve pinned him up twice now in less than twenty-four hours. But Peeta is so far from minding that it’s easy not to worry about it. In fact, he sighs happily, but that tugs back up into a gasp when I press myself up against him a little further, trying to do that thing he did with his tongue yesterday that I had particularly liked.

 

            “Ka--” he chokes, but when I pull away to let him speak, he follows me, mouth crushing against mine again. His hands are everywhere, skimming from hips to waist and over to my back. Big and warm and so very gentle with me. The pads of his fingers find a sliver of exposed skin where the shirt I’m wearing -- _his_ shirt, the one I stole last night -- has shifted forward, and a shuddering sigh escapes me as I fall forward, losing my purchase on his lips and dropping my head to his shoulder.

 

            For a moment, I’m mortified. Which is ridiculous. Like he’s not supposed to know that I like this. Like he hasn’t already gathered that I like it when he touches me like this -- like something delicate and important. I bet he can see right through me. He probably knows about the sharp twist I feel between my hips at the sound of his quiet,   
           

            “ _Oh_.”

 

            I sit up, just for an excuse to move, and try to pull my hair away from my neck, just to catch my breath, but he arches up and presses a kiss to my throat that makes me falter. I can feel his teeth when he grins at the sound of the hum that escapes me, and it’s so impossibly endearing that I can’t help but to kiss him again.

 

            I can’t believe how good it is. To kiss Peeta Mellark. To have him kissing me. Even good enough that I can pretend I’m not as bad at it as I feel I must be, because of the gasps and groans that escape him, especially when I thread my fingers into his hair.

 

            He’s built so differently than I am. So strong and solid. Stocky. So soft, and not just gentle, either. I capture his bottom lip between mine, and feel his whole body jerk beneath me. Yes, he is strong and solid. He also _whines_ at the loss of my mouth on his. I’ve never felt this way before. Wanted and powerful, like Peeta adores me so much that it’s painful for me to pull away. The feeling swirls around happily in the pit of my stomach, and I kiss him again until I’m breathless.

 

            I sit back to look at him, and just the way he’s laying there -- eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and red. Something in me aches, but I don’t have a name for it. If I asked him, Peeta might know, but I don’t want to have him tell me what words to use to describe what he’s done, so I don’t.

 

            Peeta does, instead. He calls me _beautiful_ , of all things, and I’m watching him, wondering how anyone could have eyelashes as long as his and not have them get all tangled up when they blink. He tries to go on -- makes a valiant effort, really -- but he’s no match for me. I’ve got him pinned, and I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to see what other sounds I can draw out of him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I could ramble about my amazing Beta, Wooly, for a dozen pages. She suggested the new name, which I adore, and held my hand through at least three completely separate drafts of this chapter, which had me totally lost for what felt like forever. Her writing is incredible, and I'm so much better for having her help with this fic. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr as fempeeta, and usually scrounge something up when you ask me for sneak peeks ;)


	12. solarium

I’ve been with Cora for the last nine hours, and when she leans against the wall just inside of her apartment, it’s the first time I’ve seen her rest at all. She pauses for a moment, sighing just a little, and then says, “All right, lady. You go ahead and put your shoes anywhere.”   
  
            _Lady_. Now it’s my turn to brace myself against the wall. She seems to have completely avoided calling me by my name for the last few days, but it seems to be more of an affectionate thing than a matter of her forgetting who I am. Instead, she’s been cycling through what must be every known nickname, _dear, love, honey, darling,_ and now, apparently, _lady_. I thought, after having her take no for an answer after every other shift I worked for her this week, that I was prepared for what this dinner would bring. But I wasn’t. Not for the way my stomach knots at the concern in her eyes.   
  
            Even though I had considered just leaving the new flats Peeta bought for me on, -- that counts as _anywhere_ and would make it easier to break for the door as soon as she wasn’t looking -- I tug them off, trying to offset some of the damage I did by leaning like that. It’s stupid, anyway. Not like she’d keep me here if I needed her to go. In fact, the second I try to formulate an escape plan, I realize it’s stupid. I don’t need one, and more than that, I don’t _want_ one. I don’t want to leave, but I guess if you spend enough time without an escape plan, you start to see them everywhere.   
  
            I’ve never known anyone like Cora. Not really. I saw flashes of it, sometimes. In Hazelle Hawthorne, maybe, or Greasy Sae. They both had their own families to fuss over, though, and any of it that ever landed on me was just misdirected. But Cora . . . likes me, for some reason. Worries about whether I’m getting enough to eat, gives me pastries from the case downstairs as if I’m not married to a baker. On Wednesday, even though I ate the lunch Peeta packed for me, she insisted on giving me some of hers -- leftover stew she and her daughter had eaten the night before.

 

She’s been trying to get me to come eat with them every night since I started to work at the bookshop. I can’t say why I’ve put it off until now, just that there’s something sort of hard to take in the way her eyebrows furrow. There’s no reasonable explanation for it, but when she fusses over me, it feels sort of like poking at an old bruise. No one else ever did it, and there’s only a faint echo of how my mother used to talk to Prim in the way she says girl or _love_ , but somehow, I feel like I’m missing someone when she does.

 

“Are you tired, yet?” she asks.

 

I nod. But if I’m tired, she must be exhausted, so why is she worried about me? There’s been so much to do today -- a box of new books that needed to be sorted, a man who came in with a whole trunk of old volumes that Cora bargained for for nearly an hour. Her daughter’s ride home from school fell through, and I offered to watch the shop while she picked her up, but other than that and a few bites of salad I saw her sneak at the till while I took my break, she’s been busy all day.

 

            I think that’s why she was so insistent on having me come upstairs for dinner. She told me that things aren’t usually so frustrating and that she owed me, after all that. And though I _was_ sort of hoping for an out when I used the shop phone to let Peeta know I’d be getting home late, I’m not terribly upset that he didn’t provide one. Instead, he used the word _awesome_ \-- and a few others like it -- at least four times over the course of our two minute conversation. Told me to let him know when I was all set and that he’d come pick me up, and then, and this is the worst part, he said,

 

            “Hey. I’m really glad you found a friend.”   
  
            After that he told me to have fun. And then Cora was watching me, something on her face that I couldn’t possibly read, and I told him I’d see him later and hung up the phone. _Friend_. It’s exactly the sort of word Peeta _would_ use. Only, I don’t have friends. I don’t make them. Not other than Gale, and that all ended so badly. Even with him, friend was always the wrong word. There was something else, something more, between us. I was too stupid to see, until he tried to kiss me on my last day in Twelve, that he thought that _something else_ was different than what I did.

 

Then there was Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter. We really never talked, but she did sit next to me in school for a good eight years or so, and came somewhere in the vicinity of an actual friendship. We never made it there, though. Peeta talks about _friends_ like they’re something entirely different than how I experience them. Like they’re easy or quick to make. Like Cora deserves that title even though I’ve only met her twice.

 

            Peeta. Peeta is my friend. The word doesn’t fit him either, really. Not entirely. But it comes closer than any other ones have.

 

Gale. Was he really my friend? He knows- _knew_ \- me better than anyone. Would he recognize me now, after all the months I’ve been fattening up in the Capitol? Doubtful. My body now is unevenly balanced and heavier than when I left District 12. Even my hips are somehow wider even though I stopped growing a long time ago, and I know my tread is heavier. I’d be every rabbit’s best friend- alerting every one of them in a five mile radius that hungry hunters were on their way. But even when Gale knew me, it would be hard to have just thought of him as a friend. We were more than that, somehow.

 

And maybe that’s whats got me so turned around. Gale wasn’t my friend the same way Peeta isn’t, and yet somehow putting them in the same category is turning my stomach. Because if Gale knew me best, then how do I explain Peeta, who makes me feel like he’s known me my whole life without ever once meeting me? Maybe the difference is that I wanted Gale as a friend when he wasn’t, and I want nothing like friendship at all from Peeta. But if that’s the case… then what do I want?  
  
  
            Cora’s apartment isn’t half as big as Peeta’s house. We move in past the dimly lit entry way into the kitchen. Rather than a dining room like the one Peeta and I never eat in, it’s all one unit. There’s a bookshelf posted against the closest side of the counter that separates the kitchen from the dining room, so unlike any of the shelves in the bookshop just downstairs. Every book that could possibly fit has been crammed in place with no visible attempt at any sorting, and all three shelves look like they might either buckle under the weight or spill out entirely if just one more book was added. But when I spot little Tilda at the table, I’m sure that it’s exactly where the books she’s got spread out around her at the table will go when she’s finished with them.

  
            “Hey, Bun,” Cora says, coming to stand behind her daughter. Her voice is so soft it lilts, and Tilda leans back against the hand on her shoulder as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.   
  
            “Hey, Mama,” Tilda replies, smiling even as her bright blue eyes remain trained forward.

 

I shouldn’t be here. Peeta was wrong, saying I was making friends with Cora. We only met last weekend, but I’ve known all this time that her giving me a job at her bookshop was only because she didn’t know how else to thank me for bringing Tilda back to her at the farmer’s market. I tried to tell her that anyone would have done it, but she didn’t believe me.

 

“You remember Katniss, right?” Cora asks. That same voice, too affectionate to use when she’s talking about me. “From--”  
  
            “Yes!” Tilda interrupts, her head whipping over to look at me, a smile on her face already when I offer up a --  
  
            “Hi.”

 

Cora laughs softly, more to herself than anything, and Tilda scrunches her face up as she squints, her eyes somehow still massive under the soda bottle lenses of her glasses. I don’t know how well she can see me, but even if I didn’t know about her vision trouble, I think I’d still be drawn closer by her line of questioning.   


            “Are you having dinner with us?” Tilda asks. “It’s spaghetti night. It’s my _favorite_. We’re having garlic bread too, right Mom? We _have_ to make garlic bread if Katniss is havin’ dinner with us, it’s not the same without garlic bread. Do you like garlic bread?”   


            My answer to this question is crucial, I can tell. “I like all kinds of bread.”  
  
            “She likes garlic bread,” Tilda says, head tipping back as she addresses her mother. “So we _have_ to make garlic bread. _Please_?”

 

            “All right, Bun,” Cora says, indulgent. She was going to make garlic bread all along, I’m sure, but there’s no harm in her lie when she says, “Because you asked so nicely. Thank you.”   
  
            Tilda is thrilled at this development, I can tell. She babbles a _thank you, thank you mama_ and Cora beams at her.

 

            “You can sit down, Katniss,” Cora informs me, giving her daughter’s shoulder a squeeze before she moves to start clearing off some of the mess on the table. “I’m done putting you to work, I promise.”

  
            “Oh oh! Mom, can Katniss sit next to me?”   
  
            “If she wants to,” Cora says, and the look she shoots me is almost apologetic, which is the stupidest thing I’ve seen from her yet.

 

            “Of course I can sit by you,” I say, and can’t help but to return Tilda’s smile.

 

            “Wanna see my book?” Tilda asks, and before I have to explain that I have no idea how to read the raised bumps on the pages of the book in front of her, Cora saves me with a warm,  
  
            “I wanna hear about it, too, Bun,”

 

            So we both do. Tilda gets too excited talking about just the one she’s reading for school, so she starts to talk about the one she’s reading for fun, and jumps back and forth between the two so many times that I can’t keep track. But she’s so excited, how could I blame her?

 

            She reminds me of Prim. Maybe it’s just because of the pale blonde hair, or how impossibly sweet she is. I remember Prim at this age. She would have loved to have a guest over for dinner, too.

 

            She was so quiet when we met last weekend. It was a struggle to get even just her name out of her, let alone where we might find her mother. Not that I don’t understand why. She had been surrounded by a circle of cruel Capitol children when I found her, one of the ones that was definitely old enough to know better had been holding his glasses up over his head when I snatched them back for her, but she was so shaken by the time the circle started to disband that it would have been hard to get her back to her mother if I hadn’t heard the frantic way Cora was calling for her.

 

            No one seeing the way Cora scooped the girl into her arms could have thought anything other than what I think now. Cora loves her daughter. I’ve never really seen anything like it -- Hazelle is nurturing and quiet, but Cora is fierce about it. Even today, nearly a full week later, she was still so angry at the group of kids that had bullied her daughter that I learned plenty, as we sorted through books, about _albinism_.

 

            That’s why Tilda doesn’t look quite like her mother. Of course, if you know what you’re looking for, you can see how similar they really are. Their noses are the same, and there’s something in their eyes that are identical. But Tilda is pale enough to remind me of my sister. Paler, even.

 

            “Do you like to read?” I ask, as if that’s not a totally stupid question. Of course she does. But this keeps her going, talking about how many books she reads a month.

 

            “She’s leading her class. They have a competition to see who can read more books in a semester and she’s, I think five books ahead of the closest kid already,” Cora says, so full of pride I think she might burst with it. “You’re so much smarter than I ever was, Bun.”

 

            Tilda gives a sputtering laugh, clearly dubious, but it’s clear how much she likes the praise, because then she asks me if I know how to multiply.

 

            Cora is right. She is smart. She’s funny, too, and she’s so clearly proud whenever she makes me laugh, which is too often.

 

            “Where’s home, Katniss?” Cora asks, glancing over her shoulder at me so I know she’s really listening, even as she faces the stove. It’s nice to be asked. Everyone I meet with Peeta already knows, either because it’s written all over my face or because he’s talked about me so much already.

 

            “District Twelve,” I answer, picking at some of the old polish on my left hand. Peeta will offer to repaint them as soon as he notices that they’re chipped, and I’ll let him, but I’ll feel bad about it. Like I’m betraying whoever it was that I used to be. I wait for her to ask me when I got ordered, or why I signed up, but she doesn’t.   
  
            “Bunny, you did a project about Twelve last semester, didn’t you?” Cora asks. “She does so many projects I lose track. But we read about District Twelve, I think.”

 

“We didn’t do that much in second grade in Twelve,” I say. “I think the merchant kids were still learning how to use paste by then.”   


            “ _Third_ grade,” Tilda and her mother both correct at the same time, and Cora grins as she comes to the table to set down a huge salad bowl. “All right, Bunny. Time to wash up, all right?”   
  
            True to her nickname, Tilda hops out of her seat. Cora sets the book she had in front of her on the shelf and then dishes out three plates of the salad. She points the serving fork at me and says,

 

“She’s going to try to pass her veggies off on you. Don’t let her. I know she’s cute, but we have to be strong, or she’ll try to live off of garlic bread and grape juice for the rest of her life.”  
  
            I can’t help my smile. “She _is_ cute,” I admit, and Cora screws her face up like she’s in pain.

 

            “Don’t I fucking know it?” she asks, her voice lower now. “And she adores you already. I’ve never seen it happen so fast.”

 

I mean to tell her that’s not true, but Tilda emerges, still shaking water from her hands, with a quick burst of _“Katniss!”_ and then some story about someone in her class, and Cora raises her eyebrows at me, as if this proves her point completely.

 

“So what’s in Twelve?” Cora asks.

 

“Coal mines,” Tilda answers, excited, like she was being quizzed.

 

“Yes,” I say. “Coal mines. And my sister.”   
  
            “Younger?” Cora asks. Like it’s written all over my face. So I tell her about Prim. About how smart she is, and what a natural healer she turned out to be. When I mention that I miss her -- that I miss her every day -- the look on Cora’s face is too familiar and I have to look down at the second helping of pasta she dumped on my plate.

 

She tells me how she’s the second kid out of five, but that the older one is a boy. I know what she means without her having to say it. That she was sort of a mother long before she ever had Tilda. It happens all the time back home. Especially the bigger the family gets. Posy, Gale’s youngest sister, doesn’t even remember her father. He died so long ago, and Hazelle was so busy that even though she tried harder than my mother ever did, there was plenty of slack left for him to pick up.

 

“I think all the boys are still back home,” she says. “If you need to send a letter, I can help.”   
  
            The scope of what she’s offering isn’t lost on me. Peeta is more than happy to mail out notes and packages to Prim for me, but if he _wasn’t_ , if he was a different sort of man entirely . . . Cora would be willing to help.

 

“I send her letters every week,” I say.

 

Cora studies me for a moment. She doesn’t ask about Peeta -- a courtesy I’m never really afforded. Even in those letters from Prim, she takes up precious space on the paper to inquire about my husband. But Cora doesn’t even really seem to want to hear it.

 

“Still,” she says, glancing over at her daughter, who is picking apart the crust of her last piece of garlic bread. “If you end up needing my help, let me know.”   
  


Both of them try to convince me to stay a little longer after dinner. Cora asks twice if I’m sure I don’t need a ride down the hill, and Tilda makes me promise that I’ll come back next week so she can tell me how her book report goes. It’s slow going, making my way back to the entryway where I left my shoes. And then Tilda _hugs_ me, and it’s quick and tight and then she’s gone.

 

“She adores you,” Cora says. “I’ll be the worst Mom ever if I don’t bring you around again.”   
  
            “That’s not true,” I say.

 

“What about Wednesday?” she asks. “You’re closing with me that night, gives Bunny time to do her book report. I can’t promise she won’t talk your ear off about it, but--”  
  
            “That sounds nice,” I say. “Dinner. Bunn-- Tilda. It all sounds nice. I’d love to.”

 

“All right, Love. Sounds good,” she says. “Safe trip home, all right?”   
  
            I make sure I duck out the door before she can start fussing again about whether or not I got enough to eat.

 

  
                                                                        . . .

 

Peeta is asleep on the couch when I come in. He’s got his leg propped up on the far armrest, his prosthetic leaned against the coffee table, and something playing on the screen above the mantle that he might have been paying attention to once, but the way his phone lays on his chest suggests it was at best an afterthought by the time he nodded off.

 

I guess I’m not usually out so late. He always locks the door when he comes in at night, but he left it open for me even though I have my own key now. As my boot hits the ground, he stirs a little, and I’m thinking about giving him a lecture, but he’s still asleep enough that he slurs a --   
  
            “You’re home. You came home.”

  
            “I usually do,” I tease.   
  
            There’s this faraway look in his eyes, even as he tries to focus on me. Like he’s struggling hard against something.

 

            “Are you drunk?”   
  
            The question comes out a little too rough. Peeta shakes his head, as if to clear it. “No. Hey. How was dinner? I’m fine. Did you have fun?”   
  
            “Dinner was good. What’s --?”   
  
            “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I had to take something. Overdid it at work.”   
  
            I can see it now. Can imagine he’s struggling under the weight of sleep syrup or something like it. Something stronger, I imagine, this being the Capitol and all. “You’re in pain?”  
  
            “I’m _fine_ ,” he says again, emphatically this time. “Did you get enough food?”   
  
            “I got enough food. Why aren’t you in bed, if you’re hurting?”   
  
            He blinks. “I was waiting on you.”   
  
            Oh. It’s like that’s the simplest answer in the world to him. “Are we sleeping down here tonight?” I ask. “I can get a blanket and--”   
  
            “I got -- here,” he says, attaching his leg without really even seeming to think about it and climbing to his feet. “You want to sleep downstairs?”   
  
            “If . . . if that’s where you’re sleeping.”   
  
            He pushes the door open to what I assumed was his study and ushers me in to what I see now is a whole extra bedroom. The bed is wide and low, pushed up against a gigantic window and topped with a blue striped comforter. It’s not up on a frame like the one in my room, or pushed against a headboard. Something in the comforter, flatter than the one in my room, looks more familiar.   
  
            Like this room has gotten a fair amount of use before I started dragging him upstairs every night. Peeta grabs a tee shirt out of a top drawer on his dresser and holds it towards me in offering, a shy smile on his face when I take it.

  
            “Sorry I’m not fun tonight,” he says around a yawn, sitting on the side of the bed.

 

            “I think I’ll survive,” I return, and impulsively, before I leave to change, I kiss him on the forehead. I’m so rarely any taller than him, and he’s so dazed by it that even if I am embarrassed, I can’t feel sure it was the wrong move.

 

            It’s ridiculous. I’ve been here the whole time -- and so has he. It’s just that I’ve been at the bookshop so often and been so tired by the time we went to sleep that he’s always coming up with some gentle way to peel me off of him and suggest that I should get some rest. On Tuesday, I nearly fell asleep on top of him while we were kissing. He placated me with promises of a _date_ this weekend. The one he had asked to take me on just a day before.

  
            He’s already half asleep when I crawl under the covers beside him. Not fully gone, but malleable enough to sigh and sink somehow further against the bed when I lay my head on his chest.

 

            “This doesn’t mean anything, you know,” he says, so soft, too soft. Like I’ll be mad if he sounds any more serious than it does.

 

“Hm?”   
  
            “The -- me taking . . .  my leg hurting,” he says. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”  
  
            “I’m not worried,” I lie. “This is your room? Down here?”   
  
            “I can handle the stairs.”   
  
            “I know,” I say.

 

“Don’t want you getting any ideas,” he says, shifting a little under me.

  
            “Ideas?”   
  
            “I’m still gonna take you out tomorrow,” he promises.   
  
            “Peeta, we don’t have to--”   
  
            “We do,” he says. “We’re going to. Have a little faith, all right?”   
  
            “All right, all right,” I say. “You’re still gonna take me out.”   
  
            He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Don’t worry about me.”   
  
            “Who says I was?” I ask.   
  
            “Mmph.”

                                                                        . . .

  
  
            I should have known that if there was anything Peeta would be early for, it would be a date. A date. That’s the word he used for it, and he was so serious about it, too. I couldn’t say no. With him looking at me like that, even as he told me that if I’d rather spend my Saturday around the house, it would be all right. But I couldn’t say no. Not with him looking at me like that. And what’s more is that I didn’t _want_ to.

 

 I don’t know where we’re going just yet -- I didn’t even think to ask until after we ate breakfast this morning, and by then I was already out the door on my way to the gigantic mall. But the woman in the makeup store informed me, as I held my breath and she glued false lashes on over my own, that wherever my husband took me, he was going to be glad he did.

 

            When I pull my bedroom door open, my stomach gives a little flip. While I thought to dress up, I was nowhere near prepared for how nice Peeta would look for today’s outing. _Nice_ is a bad word for it.  Peeta is devastating.

 

            His eyelashes, already usually so pale to begin with, have been coated with white. His eyelids, too, painted thickly with something that he’s got in his eyebrows, too, clinging there like snowflakes in the winter. Even the insides of his eyes -- where the woman at the mall painted mine with a smoky grey -- are so light that it looks like the whites of his eyes go on forever.

 

            And his lips.

 

            Oh.

 

            They’re this glistening red, somehow bright and dark at once. As spectacular as he looks, I can’t help but to wonder how much better he might look with that pigment smeared all over his face once I start to really kiss him.   
  
            And somehow he’s the one staring. Really staring, like I’ve maybe never seen before. His hands are behind his back to conceal something, though I really can’t bring myself to care what. I’m so distracted by him. His suit is a greyish purple with a single red rose pinned to it, and I could almost mistake the white shirt under his jacket for being something ordinary if it weren’t for the buttons, each one a different color.

 

            “Katniss,” he manages. “You -- you’re--”   
  
            “You’re beautiful,” I interrupt. Because he is. He’s beautiful. He always has been, but there’s something awful about the thought of him looking like _this_ and not knowing it.

 

            “You took my line,” he croaks, sounding genuinely stricken. Even as he produces a bouquet of roses from behind his back in what I can tell is a rehearsed motion, I can tell that he means that. Roses. Perfect red ones, a dozen of them, matching the one pinned to his chest. For me? The way he’s looking at me makes it obvious that I’m meant to take them, so I do. He has the decency, at least, to wait until I’ve got my face buried in the flowers before he says,   
  
            “You’re radiant.”   
  
            _Radiant_. Oh. He’s never seen me like this before. I haven’t ever looked like this before. But I couldn’t just wear one of my mother’s old dresses out. For one, I didn’t _want_ to, but also because they just don’t fit anymore. It only took a few months with Peeta Mellark for me to start to fill out in a way I never have before. Which means that the old yellow dress that used to hang off of me like a pillowcase didn’t quite fit over my chest anymore. What’s for certain is that I don’t look like the scrawny thing that came to the Capitol with him. Not if I’m _radiant_.

 

            “Did you--? I mean, is that . . .? Did you buy--?” he’s clearly struggling, and it’s wrong that I’m so enjoying it, making him squirm like this. “It’s new, yes?” he finally asks.

 

            It is new. I haven’t ever worn anything like this before. A pair of high waisted black pants that flow around my shins like a set of skirts, pleated and soft and beyond comfortable to move in, only barely brushing the tops of my new shoes. The top half of the thing is less of a shirt and more like the camisoles that merchant girls in Twelve might wear under dresses like my mother’s. It misses the pants by at least an inch, leaving more than just a sliver of my midriff exposed.

 

            I look up at him through my eyelashes. “Do you like it?” I ask. Maybe, if he weren’t so obvious, I would feel different. But I know what his reaction will be before he nods, head bouncing like it’s on a loose spring.

 

            “Yeah -- _yes_ ,” he says emphatically. “I like it -- very much.” He winces at that last part, like it wasn’t supposed to come out the way it did. He takes a moment to steady himself, and when he speaks, he sounds almost more broken than he does hopeful. “Can I see?”   
  
            _See_? I watch, uncomprehending, and his eyes flit over me again, holding in strange places and then landing back on my face. Whatever he wants, I’ll give it to him. I wonder if he knows that.

 

            “The back,” he amends. “I mean, could I see the back? Would you--?” he makes a little twirling motion with his index finger. “If -- if you want. If that’s all right.”

 

            I hand the flowers back over, and he looks a little like he’s going to apologize. “I --” he says, but then I put my arms down at my sides and I turn. Slowly, because I’m nervous, and because now that my back is turn to him, I don’t really want to show him my face until I’m finished with all the blushing. My back is almost fully exposed, but my chest doesn’t have much in the way of coverage either. There are thin straps to hold the top up, and then another set that disappear on their way down through the valley of my chest. I’ve never had any reason to draw attention there before, but there’s a reason my mother’s clothes don’t fit me anymore.

 

            This is what I wanted. What I hoped for when I looked at myself in the fitting room. But I’m still not prepared for the way his “ _Kat_ niss,” cuts through me.

 

            For the first time, I have managed to take words away from Peeta Mellark without having to press my mouth against his to do it.

 

            But it doesn’t last. They all start to bubble out of him at once. “You’re radiant,” he says, not for the first time. But then, once he realizes he’s repeated the word, he continues. “I mean -- _stunning._ I -- fuck. Katniss, you . . .” his hands twitch towards me, and I think _yes_ and _please_ and try to will him to take the few steps that part us and just kiss me. “You’re gorgeous. You’re always gorgeous. You--”

  
            And then I can’t take it anymore. I close the distance myself, coming to stand right in front of him and before I can crush the flowers between us and kiss him like I mean to, his hand comes to my face, tilting it up towards him as he studies me, really studies me.

 

            _Stunning. Radiant_. Peeta is full of compliments today. The woman at the counter told me he might be. She did my face up -- though not so much like Peeta’s. My cheekbones are highlighted with this powder that reminds me of an opal, and my lips are painted a few shades darker than natural, with a thin gold line down the center of my bottom lip.

 

            I have never wanted him to kiss me so badly. I ache with it, even when his head finally dips to kiss me. It’s so gentle -- too gentle, not _enough_ , not even close, but so sweet that I want to cry from some combination of relief and frustration.

 

            I just barely swallow back my whine when his thumb ghosts over my cheekbone. He’s so gentle, just like always. Content just to stand here and look at me while I try not to let my legs wobble too badly. 

 

            “You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I get to kiss you.”

 

            A little laugh escapes through my nose, not because he’s funny, but because I don’t know what to _do_ with him looking at me like this, or talking like this. I want to tell him that he can kiss me whenever he wants to. That all I want, somehow, is for him to kiss me.

 

            But I don’t manage in time. He swallows and says. “Well, we should, ah-- probably head out. Shall we?”

 

            Whatever he has planned, I’m sure it will be wonderful. But all I can think is how much I would rather press him against the wall and kiss the red right off of his lips.

           

 

            Peeta bought me a vase. It’s waiting for us downstairs, prepped with water and everything, which is so impossibly sweet that I can’t stand it. Especially not when he goes all pink over it.   


            The vase itself is fairly plain by Capitol standards. I’m sure it costs tons more than the water glass my mother kept the flowers Dad would bring home from her in, but there’s nothing particularly extravagant about it to Peeta. I don’t tell him all of the effort it would take to get something like this at home. Or that Prim was the one who got the pretty things, not me.

 

            Things are different here. Peeta Mellark decides to buy me beautiful things, and then he brings them home. He doesn’t have to wait or save or bargain. He just gives them to me, and shifts his weight around like he’s not sure whether or not I’ll accept them.

 

 

 

            “It’s no forest,” says Peeta as he pulls open the heavy wooden front door of the Capitol City Solarium. “But it’s the best I could do in a pinch.”   
  
            I don’t expect anything like a forest at all inside of the gigantic building, so I’m more than a little surprised as I cross the threshold in. It isn’t very bright -- between the clouds outside and the two stories that separate us from the glass ceiling, nothing provides very much light other than a few dim fixtures along the wall and what’s visible from the winding staircase that leads to the top floor. He’s right -- it’s not forest, but it’s close.

 

            The air inside is sweet, drawing me in closer as he closes the door behind us. There’s music playing softly from somewhere further up, some soft crooning vocalist. I find myself drawn towards the hanging plants that usher us in. Peeta comes to stand behind me while I read from the plaque that explains what it is, and all it takes to get me to start over -- out loud, this time -- is the feeling of his warm hand on my lower back. He’s touched me there before, just casually, but I’ve never been wearing anything that would expose the skin back there, and I feel like my knees are going to start wobbling again at any moment.

 

            It’s stupid. We’re married. I’ve lived with him for eight months, now. I should be used to this. Peeta touches me casually, distractedly, all the time. His hand is so warm, so big, and though I know it’s calloused and scarred from years of burns from the ovens, it feels so soft.

 

            “Look at the colors on that leaf,” he says, voice soft with wonder as he motions toward one particularly speckled leaf. “If I painted that, you’d say it looked fake.”   
  
            “No, I wouldn’t,” I protest.

 

            “Or I would. Someone would,” he assures me.

 

            “I haven’t even seen your paintings.”

 

“I didn’t know you wanted to.”   
  
            He’s got this soft smile, like he’s surprised, like I’ve just made him so happy.   
  
            “We’ve got time. I’ll show you,” he tells me, and then he presses a kiss to the side of my head, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and says, “Come look at this one.”   
  
            Peeta has been here before, obviously. But he’s still just as pleased to look at the plants with me, his hand staying somewhere on my back as he does. If we were in my woods, I’d be able to show him around. Tell him which plants he could eat and which ones Dad and I used to make crowns out of. But it’s different, here. Even the plants I do know are modified in some form or another, and most all are far larger than you’d ever find them anywhere else.

 

            But it’s still nice.

 

            We stay by the carnivorous plants for a long while. He reaches over the railing even though I’m sure he’s not supposed to and shows me how they snap shut at the feeling of something inside of them, and I grab his wrist when he yanks it away, ready to admonish him for it. Only, he looks so _happy,_ how could I lecture him?

 

            “Look, look,” he encourages, nodding towards the plant, which has folded itself shut. “So there would usually be a fly in there,” he explains. “My grandfather had these. None this big, obviously.”   
  
            The one he just teased is tall enough it would come up to my hipbone easily if we weren’t separated by the half-wall railing. Peeta continues, babbling about how his oldest brother, Dylan, and Rye tried to convince him that they were going to feed him to the one his grandfather was growing out back.

 

            “I was little!” he defends. “I should have led with that. I was really little.”   
  
            And I can’t help it. For whatever reason, too much affection wells up inside of me, and I rise onto my toes to kiss his cheek. This stops him in his tracks, and as I drop back down to my heels, his free hand rises to the spot I just kissed, like it’s something so precious to have been kissed by me. Like he could keep it. Like he would want to.

 

            “All right,” he says. “More stories about me being young and dumb, then? There are lot of them-- oh, okay, we’re walking. All right,” Peeta says, grinning as he follows me up the staircase.

 

We work our way through it slowly. I knot our fingers together and tug him from one to the next and he follows diligently. We take turns reading off the plaques and I realize that I like the way he sounds when he’s reading way too much, and then that I just like _him_ too much.

 

So when he says, “I don’t know if you’re hungry yet, but I--” I can’t wait a minute longer to tug him down by his suit jacket and kiss him, really kiss him, the way I’ve wanted to all day. His initial gasp is very nearly a whimper, but before I can feel guilty for the interruption, his hands come to rest on my waist.   
  
            They’re big, calloused and warm against the exposed skin there. Not really grabbing, not really doing much more than anchoring me in place as he traps my bottom lip between his teeth, so gentle, and I go lightheaded.   
  
            “That all right?” he breathes not a moment later, forehead pressed against mine.   
  
            I wonder if he knows. That I’ve wanted so badly to kiss him like this all day. That something happened, something changed within me after the first time we kissed this way, when I pressed him up against the door. That I think about it so much, now, too much. I nod, maybe a little too eagerly, and a breathless little laugh escapes him.   
  
            “Okay. And you’d tell me? If -- something wasn’t. Right?” he checks, one of his hands leaving my waist to come up to the back of my neck. His fingertips ghost across the exposed skin there and I shiver, still clutching at his jacket. “Katniss?”   
  
            I nod. I want to tell him that it’s more than all right. That it’s _good_. But I don’t trust that my voice would be much more than a breathless huff right now. Instead, I work at releasing his jacket. My arms go over his neck, at first, and then I think better of it, because two can play at this game, and let my fingers find the curls at the back of his neck.

 

“Oh-” he says, a little choked. And then I kiss him again. I try that thing he did earlier and tug his bottom lip between my teeth, not hard, not biting down. He really does whine, now, and something strange shoots through me at the sound.   


“Ruining your date,” I breathe when he pulls back a moment later, gasping. “You planned all this and I--”  
  
            “ _No_ ,” he breathes. “No. Please -- kiss me anytime you feel like it.”                                                                                                            
  
            Anytime I feel like it. I don’t think he knows what a tall order that is. His hands stay on my hips, and he’s looking at me like -- like . . . I don’t know what. But he parts his lips again, looking for all the world as if he wants to say something and has no idea what, and I’m nowhere near prepared for the rush I feel.   
  
            Any time I feel like it. I kiss him again, a little gentler, my hands still threaded into his hair. Another gasp-whimper, this one sounding vaguely like, “ _Katniss_ ,” as I tug him ever closer.

 

It’s just us. It figures, no one else in the Capitol would like someplace like this. I take a step back, and I feel my lips turn up before I even really realize why. His hair is a mess. He reaches to smooth it down, either red because he’s embarrassed to have his hair ruined or from the kissing. I know I’m staring, but somehow I think that part might not bother him so much.   
  
            I can’t hide my smile when I reach up and muss it all over again. He considers this for half a second, as if he doesn’t know whether or not he’s going to be upset by this. And then he says, so gentle.

 

            “All right, I give. You always had the better hair, anyway.”   
  
            He watches me intently as I stretch onto my toes and smooth it back down, eyebrows knit together just slightly. It isn’t quite perfect, but the best I can do without the gel he used earlier. He turns his head and presses a kiss to my forearm, and the whole thing is too much, too sweet.

 

“Not better.”   
  
            He blinks.   
  
            “Are there more plants?” I ask. Because I sort of want to go home. He mentioned dinner. And besides -- I sort of want to get to the part where he walks me to my door and I walk him to the bed.   
  
            Peeta tells me that he has something to show me and guides me up one last set of stairs. The top floor of the Solarium is comprised mostly of hanging plants, which Peeta separates to let me through. I mean to turn and call him silly, but then I see what the plants were hiding.

 

The table itself is small. One of the chairs is right beside the trunk of an enormous tree that must stretch right up to the ceiling, and from the lowest branch hangs a chandelier. Peeta is watching me, anxious, like I might say something he’s nervous to hear.

 

“Oh,” I breathe, a little belatedly. This is enough for him. He pulls the chair closest to the tree trunk out for me to sit in and then unfolds the perfectly crisp napkin with a little flourish, setting it on my lap. I wonder if he’s practiced this. Especially as he steps away from the table.   
  
            There’s a rolling cart that’s loaded up with these silver containers I’ve never seen before. At the press of a button they _hiss_ and separate into two perfectly loaded plates of food. Salad is what he sets on the table first. With greens and a vinaigrette that have to be from the Capitol, but _dandelions_ , too.   
  
            “Did you make this?” I ask. “For me?”   
  
            He hesitates, filling the fluted glass in front of me with some speckled pink drink. “Ah, a friend of mine,” he says. “I called in a favor. She’d like to meet you. It was hard convincing her to make this meal for us anywhere _other_ than the chef’s table at Cardew’s.”   
  
            “A favor?” I ask, because there’s so much about that sentence that I don’t understand, and this seems like the easiest place to start.   
  
            He pours his own glass and then finally sits across from me. “I fronted her some pastries when her dessert chef no-called on the night this big food critic was in town,” he admits. “She’s on my same street. We sort of . . . look after each other.”   
  
            “And you used your favor on _this_?” I ask, disbelieving.

 

            “Why shouldn’t I?” he teases.

  
            “I would have been perfectly happy with sandwiches,” I say.   
  
            “Katniss. That’s second date stuff.”

 

            “ _Second_ date stuff?” I repeat, incredulous. “What is this, the fifth?”   
  
            “What?” he asks. “No. It’s the first one. Why did you think I was so nervous to ask you?”   
  
            Before I can answer, he continues,   
  
            “And the _fifth?_ What were the first four?” he’s just teasing me, now. Pretending he doesn’t understand what I mean. “Was I there, or did you go without me?”   
  
            I roll my eyes, pretending like I really care about this argument, but I don’t. “The arcade, for starters,” I say.   
  
            “But--!” he tries to protest, and I hold my fork up to silence him.

 

            “The arcade, and then the park.” At his confused look, I continue. “The one by your parents’ house, when you took me for pizza and ice cream. Then the thrift store and hot chocolate at Heavensbee’s, the library in District Twelve, and--” I cut out a few other things, because I’m too close to five. He’s always taking me places, stores he thinks I’d like, the farmer’s market near his bakery, where I met the woman who owns the store I now work at. “Now this,” I say, holding up my hand triumphantly. Five fingers. Five dates.

 

            His eyes are shining playfully when he says, “So, not to be too picky here. But one of those dates was my grandmother’s funeral. That can’t possibly count. And the hot chocolate was just me repaying you for helping me find my boots. Nothing halfway romantic _there_ ,” he teases, as if my heart wasn’t flopping around in my chest that whole day. “So that leaves the arcade and the library.”   
  
            “Three dates, then,” I say. “Well past sandwiches.”   
  
            “No, no,” he continues. “The arcade doesn’t count.” He doesn’t need to elaborate. I ran away, that day. Left when he was at work and scared him half to death. “The way I see it,” he continues, “for it to really be a date, we’d have to leave the house together, one of us should know where we’re going, and flowers should be involved in some form.”   
  
            “Oh, are those the rules?” I ask.   
  
            “Absolutely,” he says, as if he isn’t making this up as he goes along. “So, arcade doesn’t count. Gramma’s funeral doesn’t count. Thrift store couldn’t ever possibly count,” he grins.

  
            “You gave me a flower,” I say. “Before the library. You picked me a dandelion.”   
  
            I have it tucked away in the back of the Plant Book, but he doesn’t have to know that.

 

“All right,” he says. “I’ll concede. This is our second date, and I should have packed sandwiches instead.”

 

“There’s always next time,” I assure him. “And in the future, I’ll be sure to pick you flowers, just so the date can’t be contested later.”   
  
            He laughs -- really laughs -- and I feel inexplicably warm. The drink is some impossibly luxurious rose gold lemonade, and Peeta watches anxiously to make sure I don’t get too low on it.   
  
            “I think _rustic_ is the word Bonnie uses now,” he teases as he brings out the main course, a stew that sets my mouth watering as soon as the container hisses open. “It’s District Food, really. But it won’t sell like that out here.”   
  
            Oh.   
  
            “So you had her make District Twelve,” I say.   
  
            Really, I shouldn’t be surprised. But that doesn’t keep me from being stunned at the gesture. Especially with how nervous he looks about it.   
  
            “Something like that,” he says. “And now I know, if you don’t like it I can just make us some sandwiches when we get home.”   
  
            I cough out a laugh and Peeta smiles, clearly pleased with himself. It’s all so sweet, so impossible, him being _this_ kind. This generous. Caring for me enough to do any of this, let alone all of it.   
  
            “Hey. If you thought this really _was_ our first date. Were you going to kiss me at the end of the night?” I ask, as if I didn’t already kiss him senseless just an hour ago. “Or were you going to walk me to the door like a gentleman and just . . .”  
  
            I trail off, but he’s watching me so intently, clearly not wanting to interrupt.   
  
            “Say goodnight and leave me there,” I finish weakly.

 

He swallows. “I -- I’d like to say I always try to be a gentleman,” he says, fidgeting with his jacket.   
  
            “So no?” I tease. I shouldn’t. He’s so red already. “I’m glad we cleared up that confusion, then.”   
  
            “Oh?” he asks, a little more broken than hopeful. “I -- I would have . . . I would _want_ to kiss you,” he says, and then scratches at the hair on the back of his neck. “I always want to kiss you. But I would have played it by ear. Definitely planned on walking you to your door.”   
  
            I was going to tell him that it would have been terribly disappointing if he hadn’t kissed me after all this, but he’s trying so hard to explain himself that I think I ought to let the poor man speak.

  
            “Probably would have kissed you anyway,” he croaks. “If you wanted me to. I know it’s stupid. I’m just--”  
  
            “It’s not stupid.”   
  
            “I wanted to give you a good first date. A real one,” he says.   
  
            Nothing about this is _real_. It’s kind and generous and incredible, but it isn’t _real_. I wonder if he knows that.   
  
            “And if that ended with me telling you goodnight at the door, that was how that would have ended.”   
  
            “I’m going to kiss you,” I inform him. “When you walk me upstairs. To the room. I’m going to kiss you.”   
  
            “I’ll look forward to it,” he says, smiling winningly. My stomach does this stupid little flip at the sight of it.

 

  
            The stew is more than good. It’s not quite a District Twelve meal, but I couldn’t possibly tell him that eating pasta with Cora made me feel more at home than all of this. It would wreck him. So I tell him the truth, that it’s all lovely.   


            “What was your first date, then?” I ask. “The one where you got all those ideas about not kissing?”   
  
            “What did we decide earlier? The library?” he asks.

 

            “No, come on,” I say. “I know you said you never had a girlfriend but there had to be _someone_. Even just once or twice?”   
  
            “Katniss, it’s you,” he says, as if that isn’t a horrible amount of pressure to put on somebody. “I had crushes. Lots of them. But never wound up acting on any of them. I think -- all right. The closest I ever came was with someone I knew in high school. But only in that ‘they knew I thought they were cute and let me down gently’ kind of way.”   
  
            I learn forward a little. I don’t know what I think it’ll help, figuring out the kind of person Peeta likes when he didn’t have to order them in the mail. But for some reason, I want to know.

 

            “He was a year older than me. We had lunch period together and I somehow wound up sitting near him and he just -- always had someone cool around him. But that was the problem, I guess. He always had _someone_ cool around him, and I told him I liked him but it never worked out, and then he left for college.”   
  
            Peeta won’t look at me.

 

“It seems really juvenile with all the _liking_ stuff. But it was, I don’t know. Sophomore year? That was what we called it.”   
  
            It’s quiet for a beat.   
  
            “We don’t have to talk about this. But can you -- say something?” he asks.

  
            “You like boys, too,” I say.

 

He stays focused on his plate. “It never came up before.”   
  
            “So you like boys _and_ girls, and none of them were smart enough to take you out on a date?”   
  
            Finally, I manage to get him to look up at me. “I -- didn’t know if you were going to mind.”   
  
            “If I’d _mind_?” I echo, and then soften my tone when I realize that he’s serious, of course he is. “Peeta, you’re handsome and funny and kind and now you’re telling me that you could have had anyone in the Capitol--”  
  
            “Not quite--”  
  
            “You could have had your pick, _anyone_ in the Capitol, but _I’m_ the one you’re making such a fuss over taking out. And I’m supposed to be upset about that?”   
  
            “I wouldn’t say supposed to,” he says, finally smiling. “And I don’t know if I’d say I’m making a _fuss_.”   
  
            “You really do know how to make a girl feel special.”   


 

. . .

 

            Just as promised, Peeta walks me upstairs to the bedroom. It’s, of course, after we stop to put the leftovers in the fridge and I kick my shoes off into the entryway. But he walks me up to my door all the same, and says, like he’s reading from a script I never got the pages for,   
  
            “This was really nice.”   
  
            My stomach flops. “Yeah.”   
  
            “Would you want to do this more?” he asks. Like he really isn’t sure what my answer would be. “I mean -- we don’t have to. But there’s so much I want to show you. And . . . and I had a really good time tonight.”   
  
            “So did I,” I say. I wonder if he remembers my promise from earlier. That I was going to kiss him.   
  
            He smiles. Like he’s genuinely relieved. Something clenches in my stomach.

  
            “You’re coming in, right?” I ask.

 

He nods, maybe a little enthusiastic, definitely endearing. He sits on the side of the bed he always sleeps on, watching, maybe to see what I’ll do. It’s ridiculous, being nervous. It’s just-- different now. With him in my room -- on my bed -- looking like this. Even if he does always sleep here.

 

            “We don’t -- have to do anything,” he informs me haltingly, as if he’s not sure he’s answering the right question. “You know that, right?”   
  
            I nod.

 

“Katniss?” he asks, so gentle. “You wanna-- just . . . come here?”

 

I nod again, and he watches me anxiously as it takes a minute for my legs to work, to carry me over to him. He moves over, his legs up on the bed to make room for me to join him. I know where he wants me, curled up against him so he can wrap an arm around my shoulders and pull me in tight. And then he’ll tell me what a great time he had today, and how much he likes spending time with me, and that’ll be it. We’ll be done, finished for the evening. Maybe he’ll suggest we watch a movie or we’ll just turn out the lights and go to sleep.

 

But I don’t want that.   
  
            It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it. My head on his chest, his arm around me, warm and heavy, serving more as a blanket than a way to lock me in place. His whispered commentary during whatever movie he asked if I wanted to watch, as if there might be anyone else around to disturb if he were too loud. I don’t mind any of it. In fact, I like it far more than I ought to.

 

Tonight, though, I want more.

 

He studies me where I perch myself on the bed, my shins tucked underneath me as I size him up. He swallows, clearly anxious, and shifts forward. “Katniss,” he begins, very careful. “I know we talked about -- how the night would end. And . . . and kissing is nice, but--”   
  
            “Nice,” I echo.

 

            His lips twist up into a smile, though I seem to have done nothing to soothe his nerves. “More than nice. But I don’t-- want you to think that you’re held to any . . .” he bites his lower lip, and I watch closely. “That I expect any sort of, ah, for you to -- that I expect anything.”   
  
            I watch as his fingers twitch. He’s trying hard to find the right words, and he must think he’s close.   
  
            “I had a really good time tonight. Um, a really good time. But that’s all. And a good time doesn’t entitle me to any--”

 

I can’t take it anymore. I may not be as small as I used to be, but I’m still more agile than he expects, and it takes all of two seconds for me to pounce on him. My prey cuts himself off immediately, holding his breath as I settle in atop him. He’s supporting my full weight, but I don’t think that’s why he looks so dazed.

  
            My lips descend on his, and finally, he breathes again. It’s a gasp, half broken, not anything like unhappy. This is what I want. This. Peeta under me, staring up at me all starry eyed, like there’s anything at all worth seeing. His lips are a little slick with his lipstick, which has clung to his lips admirably all night, but has started to smudge across his face -- and mine, too, I bet.  
  
            How long do we stay like that? He melts back, head and shoulders against the headboard as I sink against him even further, his hands on my hips. As my hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt, I realize that I’m just close enough to really see them. Someone -- Peeta? -- painted each of them individually. More than just one color, brushstrokes so small I can barely even see them. They’re beautiful, I’m sure. Really, it’s a shame I’m not even really looking at them. The truth is, I can’t possibly pay attention to anything other than the half-frantic rise and fall of his chest as I slip the first one free.   
  
            “Can I--?” I ask, noticing the way his eyes are stuck on my face.

 

            “Okay. Yeah.”   
  
            I’m two buttons deep by the time I reach his collarbone, and I might be doubting myself if it weren’t for the way he’s sighing up at me. It’s more fair now, anyway. Me having some skin to touch when he’s been enjoying the gaps in the fabric of my outfit all day. His hand leaves my waist and he unfastens one of the buttons himself, clearly impatient, but I knock his hand out of the way with mine.   
  
            “Let me.”   
  
            He nods, head a little too frantic, and I shift my weight down a little, giving myself more room to work. “I, um, I --” he stammers, voice almost too weak to sound nervous. I’m sitting up now, weight fully perched on him, almost even out of his reach. Once I’ve finished with the buttons, I move to push it back against his shoulders. I just mean to make sure it’s open, really, but then he pushes himself to sit up, and I fall back at the sudden movement, careful to shift onto the mattress instead of on him.  
  
              _“Fuck_ ,” he breathes. Even though it’s fine. I knew it would be too much eventually, my full weight on him, trapping him in place. It’s not like he pushed me off of him, either. Just that at what was clearly an uncomfortable shift, I moved for the bed instead. “Shit. Are you all right? Do you want . . .? I didn’t mean to--” he cuts himself off, maybe realizing that I’m all right. Maybe realizing that I’m staring. His eyes dart down towards his chest, exposed by the shirt that hangs open from his shoulders, and he flushes bright red. “I was gonna -- just-- take it off.”   
  
            My mouth feels a little dry, which is absurd. “Okay.”   
  
            He’s so red, all the way to his ears. I watch as he tugs first one arm and then the other out of the now-crumpled white shirt, and then tosses it somewhere over the side of the bed. I’ve seen men without their shirts before. For one, none of them have ever looked like this. Like Peeta Mellark, who is strong and soft, and has always had enough to eat. And they’ve never -- _ever_ \-- made me feel this strange twist down so deep in my belly it’s practically between my legs.   
  
            “You wanna c’mere?” he asks for the second time tonight. As if he isn’t entirely certain.   
  
            I nod, and his hand steadies me by the small of my back as I settle back in atop his chest. “What’s--?” I start to ask, but my hand trails over of its own accord to brush along the lines of the tattoo on his collarbone. It’s not massive -- not by any stretch. An inch or two. A vine, lines thin and delicate, curling. A tattoo. My fingertips brush over it, very soft, and he holds his breath.   
  
            And then --   
  
            Oh. The vine bursts into bloom, spreading up to his arm, his shoulder, sprouting,   
  
            “Roses.”   
  
            His neck cranes as he tries to see what I’m looking at, what my fingers are trailing along. He’s so beautiful, red on his lips smudged around his mouth -- and mine, too, probably -- eyes blown wide with _something_ as he manages to say,   
  
            “It’s-- never done that before.”   
  
            I roll my eyes. “Don’t lie.”   
  
            “No -- I mean it,” he says, and as his eyes lock on mine, I realize that he’s telling the truth. “It’s never -- I had it since I was a sophomore and it’s never --”   
  
            “It’s beautiful.”   
  
            “It’s-- It’s just--” he tries to explain it away, but I’m not listening, not even a little. I kiss him again, very gently, around his babbles of, “I’ve never _shown_ anyone, and . . . I . . .” and he gives up on whatever it was he was trying to inform me. And then it’s my fingertips ghosting along the warm skin, and Peeta’s breathing, deep and clearly him attempting to keep it steady.

 

            He’s more than happy to allow this. Me, with my hands on him, just barely touching. I ask him if hurt, and his explanation about how it only hurt a little chokes off and dies in his throat when my lips brush against the ink near his shoulder.

 

            To say it’s satisfying, turning the boy into a total mess as he lays there, happily allowing me to touch, would be selfish. And an understatement. But I don’t have a better word for it, and Peeta is so patient during my exploration, hands flitting from my waist to my hair and back, never interfering or stopping as the ache I feel in my gut only builds.

  
            Not until he hears my stomach rumble and takes the escape it provides, pressing a kiss to my lips as he urges me to sit up and tells me that there are leftovers downstairs.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta, Wooly, is incredible. She talked me down from scrapping this entire chapter at least twice, and as always I am blown away by her characterization notes for Katniss. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I'm on tumblr as fempeeta!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! It's been a minute! This is in Peeta's POV, and the character that had been named Ophelia has been retconned to be named Cordelia instead, since it's weird to write a 5 year old with my name. Also this chapter and I think a lot of the rest of the fic will be centering on what it's like to cut contact with an abusive family as an adult, so if that's a sore spot for you, please be warned and be careful w yourself. <3 
> 
> thanks for hanging in there, y'all.

I’m not sure what’s worse.

 

Waiting on Dad to call and yell at me, or the slow realization, as days sprawl into weeks, that this time he might not. Usually, it takes less than a day for Mom to spin some version of the narrative that turns me into a monster. The kind of monster who, once his dad calls and lectures him, picks up the phone and apologizes for terrorizing the town. Or, his poor mother, or whatever.

 

But Dad doesn’t call. Not this time. I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t buy it, whatever it is that Mom’s saying about me hanging up on her. Only, that doesn’t make sense. He’s got no reason to doubt it. And I _did_ hang up on her. Technically. I mean, it was because my wife had me pinned up against the wall and I did what any reasonable person would do when Katniss Everdeen wanted to make out with them. But that defense doesn’t really hold up, and I haven’t had an excuse to use it yet.

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** _(attached image. Download?)_

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** Did you know they even made cleats so little? I can’t get her to take them off.

 

There’s a photo that loads up now, of little Cordelia asleep on the couch, mouth wide open in her sleep, cleated feet hanging off the side of the cushion in what must be an attempt to follow the house rule about no shoes on the furniture.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** she’s so cute.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** I thought she was doing ballet?

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** almost did ballet. My husband thinks soccer is more high energy and might help to wear her out more. Wasn’t a hard sell for any of us.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** surprised he didn’t want her to do both, fill out that college app early.

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** I’m gonna have the most annoyingly well rounded kid. You have no idea.

 

_**Peeta Mellark:** hey how pissed is (text not sent. Save draft?) _

 

I clear the text as the next message from my brother comes through.

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** she’s already smarter than either of us. I’m way outnumbered here.

 

_**Peeta Mellark:** has Dad said anything about (text not sent. Save draft?) _

 

 _ **Rye Mellark-Armand:**_ speaking of wearing my child out.

 

 

 _ **Rye Mellark-Armand**_ : what are the odds I can talk you & the mrs into staying here over a long weekend with the baby?

 

 

 _ **Rye Mellark-Armand:**_ our anniversary is coming up....

 

 _ **Rye Mellark-Armand:**_ We don’t trust anyone else.

 

 _ **Peeta Mellark:**_ oh! I really am your favorite!

 

 _ **Rye Mellark-Armand:**_ I mean. Katniss is the one we really like...

 

 _ **Peeta Mellark:**_ get in line.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** have you heard from mom and dad at all?

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** lol not when I can help it.

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** what’s going on?

 

I stare down at the phone. Right. Asking Rye is sort of stupid. He’s as close to having no relationship with mom and dad as any of us are. But what else am I supposed to do? Dylan is practically still on Mom’s lap, and whatever I say to him will definitely come back around on me.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** nothing new.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** just curious.

 

 **Peeta Mellark:** I’ve got a wedding but I’ll talk to Katniss about babysitting.

 

 **Rye Mellark-Armand:** is mom still mad about the funeral?

I don’t bother answering that. He knows, already. It’s impossible to come out of that house and not know how things work there.

 

“Hey.” It’s Katniss. Of course, it’s Katniss. She’s curled up on the opposite end of the couch, her legs tucked underneath her like a bird. If I reached for her, I’m sure she’d fall against me easily, but I’ve been so distracted by my phone. She isn’t accusing me of anything. Just reminding me that she’s here. That she isn’t watching whatever I had put on the TV before she came downstairs out of anything other than mild curiosity.

 

“Hey,” I return. “Wanna see your niece being cute in soccer cleats?”

 

That’s another way to get her right up beside me. Later tonight, I’m sure we’ll argue about which bed we ought to sleep in. She’ll insist that she _likes_ the one downstairs and pretend that it’s not at all because she saw me wince earlier, and I’ll talk her into sleeping upstairs somehow. I think she’ll let me win tonight, but I didn’t miss the way she left her book in my room last night. She’s as subtle as a freight train and has no idea.

 

For now, though, she lets her book slide shut as it rests in her lap and leans against my chest, craining her neck to look up at me.

 

“Tell me about work,” she requests.

 

So I do. Her eyes light up if I describe a pastry well enough, and by the time I’m finished with my story about the cookies I made today, she looks completely dazed.

 

She protests when I go to stand up, even gives a little sigh of my name as she follows me to the kitchen. And when she realizes I’ve got the flour out already, and she says, “You know don’t have to--”

 

“I know.” Even though she rolls her eyes, a smile twists her lips before she can school it away.

 

My heart pounds hard in my chest at the sight of it, and I turn away from my workspace completely to face her.

 

“I would much rather bake for you,” I inform her. “Whatever you want. Whenever you want it.”

 

“Whatever I want?” she asks.

 

“Anything for my favorite customer,” I assure her.

 

And she looks at me, like-- I don’t know what. “You were baking all day.”

 

“Not for someone I -- care about,” I manage.

 

Her lips twitch up into a smile. “Too bad you don’t kiss customers,” she says, a little airy, that starry look in her eyes again.

 

“I’m a married man, Everdeen,” I say, even as I close the space between us and take her face in my hands, very gently. “I don’t know what makes you think I--”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” she says, but then she’s _laughing_ , and I can’t help kissing her. By some miracle, this earns me even more laughter, and even though she’s sort of squirming, she uses a hand threaded through my hair to anchor me in place. I can’t say quite how many of my kisses make their mark, but if she isn’t unhappy with the kisses landing all over her face, I’m certainly not either.

 

She hoists herself up onto the counter where she sits while I bake. Once, she holds her leg out to block my way and beckons me closer when I turn to look at her. I mean to joke that she might get drunk off the power, but then she’s kissing me and I don’t have any jokes. _I’m a married man_ , I think again, but not with any sarcasm this time.

 

 

. . .

 

 

 

My wife is having dinner at her boss’s house when the phone rings. For a moment, I think it might be her, calling to ask me to come give her a ride home. She’s had dinner with them three or four times now, over the course of the last month, and I’ve offered her a ride home every night that she hasn’t taken me up on.

 

But it’s not my wife’s contact picture, eyebrows knitted together with clear suspicion just after I raised my phone’s camera towards her and told her to smile so I could take the picture. Any butterflies that had formed in my stomach drop dead at the sight of my father’s picture on the screen.

 

“Hey, Dad,” I hear a voice very much like my own say before I’m even really sure I want to answer. “H _ey_ , Son,” my father returns, drawing out the _hey_ just a little bit too long. He always does, when he’s stalling the beginning of a conversation he doesn’t particularly want to have. “Is this a good time?” “Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, and go ahead and pause the movie I’m watching on TV even though it’s a commercial break, because this is going to take a while.

 

“Is your--? Are you somewhere you can talk?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment, both of us waiting for it.

 

“How has work been?” he asks. “Dylan told us you sold the bakery.” “How does Dylan--?” I start to ask, and then think better of it. “Just new management,” I return. “They’re covering day to day stuff so I can be the new recipies guy.” “Oh, all right.” It’s quiet for a beat.

 

“How are you?” I finally ask, and it’s like knowingly stepping into a bear trap.

 

“Oh, we’ve been fine.” _We_. Dad never speaks for himself when we have these talks. It’s always _we_ , _us_ , _your mother and I_. My legs feel a little numb. Like they want to stand. Only, standing doesn’t help, and now I just look like a fucking idiot, standing in front of my couch.

 

“That’s good,” I say. “How’s--?”

 

“I really don’t like the way you’ve been treating your mother,” he says. And then, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

 

“Nothing. The way I’ve been -- treating her?” I repeat. I sit down again, but slowly. As if that’ll make my thighs feel a little bit less hollow. It doesn’t. “How--?”

 

“You were completely disrespectful at your grandmother’s funeral,” he says. “I know you two were close, and I’ve been trying to leave it alone, because I understand you were upset. We were all upset.”

 

“I wasn’t upset about--” I protest.

 

“But Peeta, you have completely shut your mother out.”

 

“I haven’t--”

 

“You’re acting like you hate her.”

 

 _Like I hate her_. The thought lands in my head like a bicycle’s front wheel after it’s fallen over, spinning, spinning, and then not. Do I hate my mother? I’ve never said it -- that would land me in so much trouble, even to this day. Maybe she hasn’t whacked me in a few years, but an _I hate you_ has always been understood to merit at least a black eye. Maybe even a broken tooth.

 

I’ve never even thought it before. Hating my mother. I’ve considered how much she must hate me plenty of times. But I certainly haven’t ever thought that I hate my mother. Not when even just the thought would be punishable.

 

“I don’t think I’ve--”

 

“You hung up on her when she tried to call you and have a perfectly civil conversation!”

 

“She called me a fucking idiot,” I return. “Twice. Before I even got into the house. I don’t think that’s civil.”

 

I hear my mother’s voice, though I don’t know what she’s saying. The hand that isn’t gripping my phone drifts to my right thigh, where I push my nails against the denim of my pants.

 

“Peeta, I just don’t see why you always have to make her out to be the bad guy.”

 

“I don’t!”

 

“You’re being very defensive, Son. I just called to try to see what I can do. I’m your Dad, Peeta. She’s my _wife_. I have my foot in both camps here, and I feel like it’s my job to fix whatever is happening in my family, but frankly, I don’t understand it at all.”

 

“But I didn’t-- I said goodbye, before I hung up the phone,” I defend. “I know I did. I told her I had to go. I didn’t have time for her to go on another tangent about how stupid I am.”

 

“ _Tangent_?” he repeats, and then I hear his sigh, right into the receiver. “Peeta, listen.” I’m on my feet again, but I’m not sure why. “Are you there?” he asks.

 

“Yeah, Dad,” I say as I cross into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

 

“My mother just died,” he says.

 

“Dad,” I protest softly.

 

“No. You need to hear this. My mother just died. I know you think Mom will be around forever, but that’s just not realistic.”

 

Of course Mom will be around forever. Any good horror story has an immortal monster of some sort.

 

“Do you understand?” he asks.

“She called me to tell me what a fucking idiot she thinks I am. For the third time,” I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like my voice. It’s too slow, too even. “She’s made her point. I don’t know why you guys think I have all this time to sit around and listen to you tell me how I’m fucking my life up, but I’ve been kind of busy with--”

 

“You need to watch your language, young man.”

 

The ice cubes in my glass start to rattle as I try to get it under the stream of cold water from the tap. My hands are shaking -- badly. “I’m not saying anything she hasn’t said,” I try to defend.

 

“Listen, I’m not saying your mother hasn’t made mistakes,” my father insists. “We’re all human, and frankly, I feel more sure, the longer this temper tantrum goes on, that your mother and I have both made more than our fair share of mistakes with you.”

 

“Dad!” I breathe.

 

“No, you need to listen to me,” he says, his voice approaching Stern. Dad only uses Stern when Mom has really put the pressure on him to lecture me, but he always thinks it’s his own idea. “I’m glad you’re having fun with your little rescue--”

 

“Don’t call her that.”

 

“But I think you’ve forgotten who your real family is, because you’ve been so busy playing house--”

 

“She _is_ my family.”

 

He scoffs. “Even you can’t believe that, Son.”

 

My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and I pretend for a long minute that it’s going to result in my finally saying _fuck you_ , but it doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t.

 

“You need to think about what kind of _happy_ you are with this girl if it’s keeping you from the people who really love you.” I swallow hard, trying to come up with a good argument, but he wouldn’t listen even if I did. The water drips down the front of my shirt when I try to take a sip.

 

“She makes me happy,” I finally say.

 

The trick here, when Dad is talking with his Stern Voice and Mom is listening, is to be very quiet. Don’t say anything new, don’t say anything loudly, don’t say anything they can tell you isn’t true. If you don’t say anything at all, this will only get worse. But something, just a little, just enough to remind them you’re on the other end.

 

“You’ve always been a romantic,” my father says, and it sounds exactly the same as when my mother came out and called me a fucking idiot. It’s hard to say which I prefer. Like trying to choose between a closed fist when you’ve had time to prepare versus an open palm when you haven’t.

 

“I don’t think--” Has speaking always been this hard? Opening my mouth, getting words out, making people stop talking. Has this always been as impossible as it is now?

 

“Taking in strays is one thing, Peeta, but when you--”

 

“Don’t call her that.”

 

“I was _saying_ , taking in strays is one thing, Peeta, but when you forget who--”

 

“Don’t call her that,” I say again, a little louder, this time.

 

“When you forget who should really be allowed up on the bed, that’s when you get into trouble.”

 

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

 

It’s quiet for a beat, maybe as he registers what I’ve just said.

 

“ _Peeta_ ,” he says, exasperated. “See, _this_ is why your mother didn’t want to leave you alone with her this long. It’s been less than a year and she’s already got her claws--”

 

“I said don’t talk about her like that!”

 

“Oh, then what _can_ I say, Peeta?” he asks. “You just tell me what I’m allowed to say, and I’ll make sure that I--”

 

“You could start off by not talking about her like she’s a fucking animal!” My voice is just slightly louder than it has to be, and even I’m not stupid enough to hope that he won’t notice. “She’s my wife,” I say, trying to control my voice a little more, but everything in me is shaking, and this is no exception. It’s fine -- he isn’t listening anyway.

 

At some point, my mother takes the phone. I’m not even really sure what she’s saying, just that she’s calling me a _spoiled fucking idiot_ and telling me that I have lessons to learn about how the real world works. And then she’s talking about how horrible I was as a teenager, and my nails are sunk into my palm on my right hand deeply enough to leave crescent shaped imprints when I force myself to unball my fist.

 

“Frankly, Peeta, if you can’t be bothered to let us get to know this -- this woman who has turned you into someone we don’t even _know_ , I don’t see how you expect us to just welcome her with open arms.”

 

Mom again, hissing into the phone. “I don’t see how you can’t see why we’re not exactly convinced this was a brilliant idea.”

 

“ _Mom_.”

 

And then now she’s saying -- well. A lot of things. I can’t quite track the progression from one to another, but then she’s telling me about how hard it was, having _someone like me_ for a child. How she’s tried to protect me, all these years, because I have no idea that the world is cruel, and that I’ve never been able to accept that. But my face is hot, too hot, as she mentions _all the afternoons she had to spend at the hospital_.

 

“Must have been hard for you.” I know what’s coming as soon as I say it, but it’s like I’m in the passenger’s seat as whoever has my voice continues.

 

“You know, Mom, I _really_ should have thought about how much more difficult your life was going to be before I went and got myself--”

 

She tells me to shut up. That I have no idea what it’s like, being a parent, and that I need to cool off before I say something I’ll regret.

 

“You do this every time,” she says. “But one day, I won’t answer the phone when you come calling to apologize, and then what?”

 

“And then you’ll finally be free.” My voice is flat.

 

“You know that’s not true,” my mother says. “You’re so dramatic. You’re upset that we don’t like your little rescue, so you’re stomping your feet and kicking your legs.”

 

“Just the one.”

 

“ _Peeta!_ ” she hisses. “That’s not funny! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

I wish I could manage to laugh. To tell her that I think it _is_ funny. It’s a riot, really, my mom holding it against me almost twenty years later that when they amputated my leg they took away her dog over the attack. No clear favorite tonight, folks.

 

And then she’s telling me what she always tells me, which is that we’re only having this conversation in the first place because she _loves me_ , and wouldn’t it be worse if she _didn’t_? How much harder my life would be if I didn’t have parents who cared about me enough to tell me when I was making a mistake? Really, I ought to be thanking her.

 

“I love you, Peeta,” she says again, and waits patiently.

 

My voice betrays me, wobbling dangerously when I start to parrot back an, “I love--” But then she’s talking again, already.

 

Telling me that she’s decided to take Katniss to lunch -- tomorrow. That she made reservations at the country club, and that I need to make sure she’s wearing something appropriate.

 

“You _do_ have enough money to buy her something presentable, right? I know you’ve sold your little bakery. Maybe I’m better off just bringing her shopping myself. I can at least see if it’s worth trying to get to know her, this way. And you’ll call me later to apologize for your hissy fit. But really--”

 

“ _Mom_!”

 

“What?!” she asks. “You’re being incredibly rude. Tell her -- I don’t know how it works in District Eleven, or wherever-the-fuck, but--”

 

“District Twelve,” I correct. “I’m not sending her to lunch with you.”

 

Her laugh is cold. “Oh, you aren’t?” she asks. “Peeta, we just agreed--”

 

“We didn’t agree on anything,” I say, my voice still the mechanical, even tone is usually is when I’m trying to make her see sense. But then I go off script, and can feel all the blood in my arms when I said, “And I care far too much about Katniss to make her spend any time around you.”

 

Then the shouting starts up again. The name calling, especially. I can still hear her voice when I pull the phone away from my face, even though I can’t make it out. According to the phone, we have been on the line for two and a half hours. I would have guessed maybe half that long, but this usually happens when it’s a bad phone call, anyway.

 

Only, this time, when my finger hovers over the red _end call_ button, I actually press it. And then it’s over. Sort of? I don’t know why I hung up, but I did, apparently. And now my phone is buzzing angrily on the couch beside me, and the thing keeping me from grabbing it is the hands threaded through my hair, elbows on my knees, tugging, but not as hard as I could. At least, I don’t think it’s as hard as I could pull it.

 

Just as I am considering testing this theory, I hear the back of the couch creak in protest, and then a warm form drops onto the cushion just beside me.

 

The arms that settle around me have never done that before, but I recognize them all the same. Katniss. She’s _home_? No. No, I was supposed to pull myself together, at least a little. I was going to wash my face with cold water, manage to get my hands to stop shaking. I was supposed to have time. She was going to stay after work, was supposed to have dinner with her boss. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not yet. Now now.

But she _is_. It’s like she appeared out of the still, quiet nothing that this house always is without her.

 

She gathers me against her a little more tightly, her face pressing against my back. Her voice is a little muffled when she says, “Who was it?” but I can _feel_ it as it rumbles against my skin through my shirt.

 

And then, again, before I could even try to come up with a response, she adds, “I _hate_ them.”

 

A laugh rips from my throat, over as quickly as it began. I wait for her to let go of me, now that she’s made me laugh. But she doesn’t. If anything, she pulls me against her a little further, and I let her.

 

One of Katniss’s hands drifts up, moving from where her arms had locked under mine, only very briefly losing that point of contact to land in my hair instead. Her fingers brush against the curls there, bumping against my hand until I loosen my grip, and I can’t help but to lean back against her a little further, my face turning towards her until it’s buried against her shoulder. She murmurs a little, gentle, “Hey.”

 

I wait for more, but it doesn’t come. I should stand up. I should ask her how her dinner was with Cora. Should offer to make dessert. Should ask her about her day at work. Be something that could pass for a functional husband. Only, when I finally lift my head from my hands and crane my neck to face her, I end up just -- staying there. My head pressed against her shoulder while she holds me against her.

 

And then she’s singing, soft and quiet, her voice richer and lower than I’ve ever heard it before. It has the opposite of the intended effect, at first. The choking sobs ramp back up as she sings, but then I have to hold my breath to hear the lyrics. It’s a quiet song, obviously sad, but not the sort of sad you immediately notice when it’s your wife holding you against her small form and singing to you for the first time.

 

I struggle to pay attention to the lyrics, want to look it up later, want to figure out how I’ve never heard it before. And then, maybe a little belatedly, I realize with a catch in my breath that isn’t quite related to all the crying, that it’s a love song. I must be starry eyed when I pull my head back to look at her, because she gives me the tiniest smile and then forces her own eyes away.

 

I take the chance while I’ve still got it and settle my face back in against her shoulder. It feels so good, too good, having her arms around me like this. Even just imagining peeling myself away aches somewhere I can’t place. So I don’t. Would it feel this good, being held like this by just anyone? I try to remember if this has ever happened before -- have I been stupid enough to cry like this in front of anyone before? And if I was -- did anyone care? Something pinches in my stomach as I realize that no, they wouldn’t have. Not if it was after my leg, not if I was old enough to remember.

 

Her lips press against the crown of my head. Not a kiss, really, just her curling herself against me as tightly as she can. I focus on matching her breaths, even and deep.

 

“Peeta?” she asks, and I manage to hum in response. “Did you eat?”

 

I have to think about my answer. She’d never know if I lied, probably. But I don’t want to risk it. I shake my head, not bothering to lift it. The other good thing about being held like this means that my face is hidden from her view, which I’m grateful for, because it means that she doesn’t see my wince when she says,

 

“ _Peeta_.”

 

She sounds -- exasperated? Not quite angry, but something else.

 

 _Worried_. My heart slams against my ribcage at the realization.

 

“‘m fine,” I say.

 

Stupid. I should have lied. What if I pretend like I just remembered now?

 

“You need to eat,” she says, a little more firmly now, hands untangling from my hair. My forehead tips against her shoulder further out of instinct, trying to earn back the touch.

 

 _Don’t go_ , I think pathetically. _I don’t need to eat. I don’t ever need to move._

 

“What do you want?”

 

“To stay right here,” I say. It’s an attempt at something like charming, but it’s the most I’ve said since she came home. My voice is a little rough, a little unsteady. I don’t like it. “With you. I’m fine. Good. Please?”

 

She sighs, hesitating as if my offer is actually tempting. And then she says, “No.” And then, a little softer, she adds, “We can lay here all you want after you eat.”

 

This is enough, just barely, to convince me to let her stand up.

 

I wobble into the kitchen after her, my joints a little stiff, the spot where my leg meets the prosthetic throbbing, and manage what I’m hopeful is a convincing smile when she turns to examine me. I can feel it’s more like a grimace, though, and it’s obvious that it isn’t passing for anything genuine when she scowls. “Sit,” she says. “Thought I had to eat.”

 

I regret it as soon as it leaves my lips. I had been aiming for something like funny -- it’s been too long since I’ve made her laugh, and now that she’s seen me like this, it’s only a matter of time before her concern slides into pity. Only, it didn’t come out like a joke. I sound like a petulant child.

 

“And _I_ thought,” Katniss returns, her voice even and cheerful as her hand curls around my bicep, “that you knew me well enough to know I wasn’t making you cook. No wonder you didn’t want to get up.” _Fuck_. Fuck. How do I fix this? Other than, “I’m sorry.” She blinks. “I was just -- I thought -- I can cook,” I say. And I turn to head for the fridge, even, but her hand is still there, on my arm. She doesn’t tug me back, but she doesn’t move, either. And dislodging Katniss, stopping her from touching me, even as casually as she is right now, goes against every fibre of my being. “Katniss.” My heart kicks up, pounding a little faster in my chest. “I don’t--”

 

“You aren’t making dinner.”

 

I swallow. She can’t possibly want me to argue. And yet --

 

”But -- you’re right. I have to eat.”

 

She rolls her eyes at me, looking almost amused. And then she guides me to the little breakfast nook we always sit in, far too gentle for it to count as pushing me into my normal seat. And then she pauses -- watching me for a moment, and brushes my bangs out of my face and turns on her heel and crosses the kitchen. It’s a quick, decisive action. One that I don’t fully understand. But not a bad one. Not by any stretch.

 

I watch her as she cooks, moving from one side of the kitchen to the other like a well rehearsed dance. None of her movements are pointless. She picks up the thread of the song from earlier while she cooks -- it seems more like baking, actually. Some kind of pastry -- a popover, maybe. It’s something she’s clearly made a few dozen times before. She makes good use of the bigger of our two skillets -- using it first to cook an apple she slices, and then to bake the batter in. Once it’s in the oven, she starts cooking up bacon in the second one. It’s around then that I realize my head hurts too much for me to even try to keep my eyes open.

 

I think I might be safe to rest them for a moment, but she catches me as soon as I put my head in my hands. She presses for an answer about what’s wrong and scowls again, somehow harder than when she first asked, when I tell her that my head hurts.

 

“No, Katniss. It’s not a big deal. Please don’t -- worry about it,” I finish lamely, but she’s already putting the kettle on the stove, muttering about the caffeine helping.

 

I watch her as she continues her dance around the kitchen, dropping into a crouch to check on the pastry in the oven, flipping some of the spitting bacon with a fork, and then digging through the fridge. Finally, she straightens, clearly getting an idea, and finds a bag of peas in the freezer.

 

“This goes here,” she announces, pressing it firmly against the back of my head, right where my head meats my neck. I shiver, but I can feel some of the throbbing in my brain melt away. The oven beeps, and she hesitates. “Hold it, okay?” I manage a nod, my hand brushing with hers as I bring it up to replace hers. My stomach flips happily, as if she’s feeling anything like romantic after seeing me sob like that.

 

I can’t quite work out what she must think of me. She sets a potholder down on the stove first, and then circles back with her creation, which she clearly intends to have me eat straight from the skillet, because other than the butter dish, a fork and the skillet of bacon, nothing else joins us at the table.

 

It’s like a big crepe, a little denser, certainly. Probably far too much food for just me. I try to put the bag of peas down and she tuts at me, picking it up and holding it back in place, watching me anxiously until I take the first bite.

 

It’s not quite like anything I’ve ever had before. A pancake, mostly, I guess. Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. It’s hearty, which figures. No meal Katniss makes would ever be anything other than sustaining. And especially not tonight. The apples at the bottom are nearly caramelized by now, and I can tell that she used cinnamon. Sort of like apple pie filling, but a little less sweet.

 

“It’s incredible,” I manage, just as the tea kettle howls.

 

She ducks her head at the praise, though I can see her proud smile even as she turns away from me, clearly forgetting about the bag of peas until it drops between my back and the booth. I squirm, trying to fish it out while she gets the mugs down from their hanging spot above the stove, and manage to get it on the table without her noticing.

“Do you want syrup?” she asks once she’s brought the mugs over. I had been just about to ask her for no sugar in mine when she turned around and presented me with a mug that was completely black. “We never really had it. But there was this one year--” she cuts herself off. “Prim liked it,” she says finally.

 

“You didn’t?” I ask.

 

She’s quiet, for a moment. Crossing the kitchen and facing away from me as she stretches up on her tiptoes to find the syrup in the cabinet. I’m afraid I’ve asked something wrong, somehow, but then she finally says,

 

“We didn’t have enough to put it on my part. Just Prim’s and my mother’s.” She finds what she’s looking for and brings it back over to the table with her, hesitating to look over what she’s prepared for me, as if there’s anything else she should bring over.

 

“You’re gonna share this with me, right?” I ask. “And tell me what it’s called, maybe?”

 

She finally relents, settling down into the booth beside me again.

 

“It’s called a Dutch Baby,” she says, taking the fork when I offer it. “Dad makes -- my dad used to make these. When . . .” she hesitates. But I want to hear it. I want to hear it so badly that it scares me, almost. Instead, she tries her creation, eyes fluttering shut as she does, the same way they do when I ask her what she thinks of something I’ve made and she takes it very seriously.

 

“Dad’s were different. Better,” she says, setting the fork down in the skillet. “Your flour isn’t the same. And the apples are different, too.”

 

“No disrespect to your father’s cooking, but I don’t see how this could be any better.”

 

She laughs, her hand coming up to brush some hair away from my eyes. “You just think that because no one’s ever made you a Dutch Baby before.”

 

No one’s ever done anything this nice for me, she’s right.

 

“When Dad made these -- when he made anything -- you could just . . . tell,” she says. “You know.”

 

“Tell what?” I ask.

 

She hesitates. Like she really did think this was something I might just understand without question. Her hand leaves my hair, coming to grab her mug instead.

 

“Just -- that he loved me,” she says, closer to a mumble, now.

 

Oh.

 

“Your head?” she asks.

 

“Not so bad,” I say.

 

But this isn’t the right answer. She scowls, and I shift in my seat a little. “It’s not -- it doesn’t really--”

 

“You shouldn’t be in pain.”

 

My heart launches into my throat, and I think, _please_. But I don’t have to ask. She doesn’t fuss again, other than to push my mug towards me.

 

I don’t know how long we stay there. Katniss, curled against my side as she fusses to make sure she cooked enough food. Not a bride, simpering as she does what’s expected of her. A wife, maybe. All eye rolls and playful admonishing. But beneath that, something else. Affection. Concern. Katniss.

 

Whatever it is, it lingers. In every brush of her hand against my skin, in every worried glance she tosses in my direction when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Only, I am paying attention, because I don’t know how to do anything else when I’m around her.

 

I want to tell her that I’m fine, that it’s fine, that this is just . . . what happens. When I speak to my parents. That she was never supposed to see me like this. But I can’t. Not if I want to win the argument about whether or not we should sleep upstairs like we always do.

 

. . . 

 

I spend longer in the shower than I usually do, letting my forehead rest against the coolness of the wall. I’ve never spoken to my parents the way I did tonight, and though it did get me more affection from Katniss than I was actually sure was possible, I don’t think it was worth the cost. She let me win, didn’t even argue that we should sleep downstairs.

 

When I come out, finally, she’s sitting cross legged on her bed, a book in her lap that she’s not even pretending to look at once I open the door. And fuck, she’s beautiful. Even especially this way, with her hair tied back and away from her eyes with a bandana that I think must have come with her from Twelve. She wears it every night.

 

“You’re coming to bed, right?” she asks, tilting her head towards my side of the bed, where she’s already pulled the sheet back and everything. “Just hit the lights, okay? It’ll be better for your head, anyway.”

 

My heart clenches in my chest, and I think distractedly that _that_ ’s the pain she ought to be worried about. Only -- if I mentioned it, even jokingly, she would panic, and if it meant less of these looks, I’d never forgive myself.

 

I take my spot beside her, grateful for the newly dark room as I feel my wince when I detach my leg.

 

She waits, as always, and then curls against me as soon as I lay back beside her. It’s quiet, and for a moment, I’m terrified that she wants me to talk about it. That she’s curious what happened on the phone earlier. Only, she doesn’t ask. Of course she doesn’t ask. For all her concern, Katniss wouldn’t ever want me to talk about this. Not if I didn’t want to.

 

Instead, she curls herself around me again, almost like on the couch, but different this time. One of her legs comes down and tangles between mine, and she drapes an arm over my chest like it’s completely natural. I hold her hand, and she sighs happily behind me.

 

“Tell me about your day?” I request. “If -- you want.” She does. She tells me about work, about the asshole customers and about how her boss handles them. About her dinner, and how taken she is with Tilda, who must feel the same way. Of course she would. Then she squeezes my hand, murmuring something about it being late, and how we ought to get to sleep.

 

Only, I don’t sleep. I don’t know how I ever do, with her in the bed beside me. She’s just behind me, tonight, body twitching and relaxing a little further against me. She’s still holding my hand, even as her grip loosens, even as she sinks down into whatever dream she’s having. Kind, funny, protective, clever Katniss Everdeen, insisting that I share the bed that was meant to belong just to her.

 

She mumbles something, clearly already asleep, that sounds like it might be meant to be my name, and I turn so I’m facing her, now, and gather her against me further, my lips in her hair. She sighs happily. And -- oh.

 

There comes a time, after you’ve spent months not saying something that’s true, when the inaction becomes an act in and of itself. If I wasn’t already in love with Katniss Everdeen when I knocked on her door in District Twelve, I knew I would be shortly. And maybe Mom is right -- maybe it was me being stubborn. But the only thing I’m certain that I’ve willed myself into is managing to swallow back the words that moved into the base of my throat before Katniss even unpacked her bag. My voice is so quiet that it cracks as I offer the words up in a hopeless prayer to the silence of the room.

   
"I'm in love with you."

 

My body rests a little easier against the mattress, not harboring this secret anymore, not holding the true thing behind gritted teeth. I didn’t expect any sort of reaction at all, least of all one from myself. I bury my face against the coarse twists of her hair, breathing in the smell of shampoo and laundry detergent and my _wife_.

 

The world continues to turn. Katniss remains asleep in my arms. I am in love with her. None of those things are any less true than before they were voiced. The real trouble, now that I know how impossibly good it feels to say something so true, will be not saying it when it can be overheard.


End file.
